


Book III: The Same Coin

by emmbrancsxx0, mushroomtale



Series: The Change Trilogy [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: -frodo baggins voice- it's gone. it's done., Arthur Pendragon Returns, Death, Depression, Drug Use, I think that's it - Freeform, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Arthur, POV Gwen, POV Gwen (Merlin), POV Lancelot, POV Merlin, POV Mordred, POV Morgana, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Temporary Character Death, Violence, War, end of an era you guys, i expect this entire trilogy to be chiseled onto my tombstone, i still know nothing about politics or government matters -finger pistols-, i'm trying to think of over warnings, lots of temporary character death?, no one actually technically dies?, the change trilogy, this fic took years off my life, tried to edit them all out but, wandering z's and no useless u's in words i'm sure - because the author is american
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 08:21:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 131,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15991358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushroomtale/pseuds/mushroomtale
Summary: With Merlin in Morgana's clutches, the fate of the kingdom hangs in the balance.





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

Gwen was up all night pacing the floors of Guildhall. Once the sun rose on Arthur’s coronation day, it didn’t take long to figure out he wasn’t in the city. The members of the committee were furious that he went behind their backs after it was decided he stay behind.

“I’ve never heard of a king missing his own crowning,” Simmons had grumbled.

Of course, Gwen knew Arthur would find a way to accompany the others in search of the Cup, but they should have returned by now.

Before midday, the committee decided to send troops to Cumbria to find Arthur and his men. The soldiers were just leaving the barracks when word of an incoming ship reached the city. It made port not long after. The knights had returned, Arthur with them. Cars had been sent to collect them and bring them to Guildhall, where Gwen, Gaius, and the committee waited.

All was silent in the hall until, all at once, a clamouring of voices and shouts came from the street outside the windows. Gwen, along with everyone else in the room, turned towards it. A mass of news reporters and camera operators had convened outside of the hall awaiting the king’s arrival.

“Well,” the Commissioner said, putting out his cigarette, “I assume they’re here.”

Gwen was torn between relief and dread. She knew, the moment Arthur walked into the hall, there would be consequences for his actions. She only hoped he had the Cup of Life with him. Ending the war with the Neos would be compensation enough for defying the committee.

Still, she felt she should warn Arthur as to what he was walking into. Without concern for the calls of her name, she fled from the room and down the corridors until she reached the exit. On the steps, bathed in bright spring sunlight, she overlooked the seething throng before her. People—citizens, reporters, and photographers—had crowded around the cars, and soldiers attempted to hold them at bay. Eventually, a path was formed leading to the hall, and the car doors opened.

At once, the clattering became louder. Recorders and microphones were pushed into the knights’ faces as they walked past, but they kept their heads down. Nathara was with them, and was the only one who looked at the crowd head-on, as if daring them to sling a question her way.

Gwen’s eyes narrowed on Lancelot, who thankfully looked unharmed, when he ducked his head out of the car. Halfway to her, he at last looked up and caught her eyes. Something in his gaze was pained. Gwen’s gut sank as she feared the worst.

Gaius appeared at Gwen’s side. She saw him scan the crowd, his brow deepening with every passing moment he did not find the face he was looking for.

Gwen did the same, and breathed a little easier when she saw Arthur emerge from one of the car’s passenger seats. He carried himself tersely, and was holding his right arm stiffly against his torso. The reporters surged forward, their arms flying around the soldiers, who formed a tight barricade with their bodies. Arthur didn’t pause to give them a sound byte. Gwen watched him curiously, and the void in perfect stride with his footsteps was not lost on her. 

When Arthur brought his gaze up, it latched onto Gaius; and he took in a steadying breath.

The knights moved up the stairs and passed between Gwen and Gaius.

“Elyan?” she asked helplessly, but he only gave her a severe look and followed the others through the doors.

When Lancelot came forward, she swept him into an embrace. In it, she felt his stress leave him.

“I was worried. You should have been back hours ago. What took so long?”

When the hug broke, she kept her hands on his arms. He looked down solemnly. Something was affecting him. It was enough to tell her their mission had failed, but it was more than that. This was something deep, personal. 

She recalled Arthur’s demeanour, and Merlin’s absence. 

“Where is Merlin?” she worried, taking a quick look around in hopes of spotting him. He was nowhere. “Lancelot?” she begged off his silence.

Lancelot looked down the steps, to where Gaius had met Arthur. Arthur was speaking in hushed tones, his hand on Gaius’ shoulder.

“Let’s go inside,” Lancelot said. Once through the doors, the cacophony of the crowd muffled, he told her, “He was captured by Morgana. We believe the Cup was placed there to draw him in. We spent hours searching for him, but he was gone.” 

Gwen tried to steady herself with a breath. It didn’t work. With all her might, she attempted to convince herself that Merlin would be okay. “We’ll find him,” she said, sounding more certain than she let on. She was sure, though, that he could see the fright in her, and she saw his. 

She could not imagine what Arthur was feeling. It was a miracle he’d been convinced to return to Winchester at all, one of which Gwen was thankful. They needed to come up with a plan, not to react rashly.

In that moment, Arthur came through the doors. He didn’t so much as glance at her as he started into the main hall where the committee was gathered. She called his name, but he didn’t even appear to hear her. Then, Gaius came through, every line on his face sombre.

“Gaius,” Gwen said, her voice full of emotion. “You mustn’t worry. He will be all right.”

Gaius’ lips thinned and he regarded her with soft gratitude. “We must believe that is so.”

The three of them together continued to the hall to meet the rest.

“—don’t you think that’s what she wants us to do?” Gwen heard Simmons yelling even before they reached the doors. “You _cannot_ bring our army into the Neos’ base so half-cocked! This committee will never allow it!”

Arthur was leaning into Simmons’ crossed arms and tapping toes, and gritting his teeth. Everyone was on their feet now, seeming poised to argue.

“I agree,” Darby voiced. “I vote against it.”

“Since when do our votes even count if he blatantly ignores them?” Brown laughed dryly. “If he won’t even be around for his own coronation, I say he isn’t fit to lead this committee!”

“One matter at a time,” the Commissioner interrupted. 

“Yes, and we’re discussing the matter of the _king consort’s_ well-being!” Arthur shouted.

“What of the king’s well-being?” Darby posed. “Your judgment can’t be so rash as to waltz into Morgana’s territory _again_ , now that you know it’s a trap—with our army, no less!” 

“Fine, then, I’ll take my knights. It will be a small group,” Arthur argued.

“Arthur, it’s suicide!” Simmons retorted.

“I don’t care!”

“We don’t even know if she’s taken him back to her base.”

“I don’t _care_!”

Simmons scoffed and threw her head back. In the motion, she caught sight of Gwen coming into the room. “Can _you_ talk some sense into him, please?”

Arthur whipped around hostilely. Gwen was about to agree with Simmons when Lancelot said briskly, “Arthur, if you mean to rescue Merlin, I’m coming with you.”

Something dropped from Gwen’s chest into her stomach.

“Thank you, Lancelot!” Arthur said a bit too forcibly, and was looking at his committee as he did so.

“Stop it, both of you!” Gwen ordered, and both men fell silent. “Arthur, think about what you’re saying. You know Simmons is right. To go so brazenly into Morgana’s camp is madness.”

Arthur bristled, but he looked as though he was at least starting to listen. “Guinevere, it’s _Merlin_ ,” he said in one last desperate attempt to convince the room.

He would never admit it, and he did a good job at hiding his bone-deep terror, but Gwen saw it in his eyes. It broke her heart to say softly, “I know. That’s the point, Arthur. Morgana wants you weak. Do not play into her hands.”

Arthur squared his jaw to stop it from quavering and looked away. He put his hands on his sides and took in a deep breath that rattled more than he probably would have liked. “What do you say, Gaius?” he asked after a pause.

Gaius pressed his lips together, considering. As though it went against what his heart was telling him, he said, “Merlin has always been capable, sire. He can handle himself until we find a sound way to get to him.”

Arthur dropped his shoulders in defeat.

“I disagree,” Nathara spoke from her place near the knights, lined up against the window. Everyone’s eyes fell on her, but it did not hinder her in the slightest. “We stand little chance against the Neo army without Merlin.” 

“Not anymore,” Darby reminded her. “Now that we have the bullets, we stand a fighting chance.” 

“And when the bullets run out? Who will command the dragon to create more?”

“She’s right,” Arthur agreed.

Gwen narrowed her eyes at Nathara; however, despite the intensity of her surveying gaze, Nathara neither flinched nor looked back at her. She did not know why, but something did not sit right in her gut. Though Nathara’s reasons were genuine, Gwen wondered if he intentions were, too.

“We have enough crates of them to last months,” said Darby. “I think I speak for everyone present when I say, we do not intend to leave the consort as Morgana’s prisoner—,” Gwen tried not to flinch at the word, “—for such an extended time.”

“But you _do_ intend to leave him a prisoner?” Arthur asked, his tone dangerous.

“We intend to come up with a strategy first,” Simmons told him.

It was clear the committee wouldn’t budget on the matter, and Gwen was happy for it. Despite her concern for her friend, she didn’t want to put more people she cared for in harm’s way. It was better this way. And, although Arthur hated it, he knew it, too.

“Fine,” he conceded, bristling. “Then, if you’re all so hell bent on finding a better way of getting Merlin back, you’d better start coming up with it.”

He pushed out of the group and started for the door. Gwen wasn’t certain where he was headed, but she knew it was best to let him blow off some steam.

“Oh, will someone put a guard on him so we know he won’t sail to York immediately?” Brown groaned, but it went ignored.

Gwen’s gaze swept to Lancelot’s, and she worried at her bottom lip.

She prayed Merlin was being strong.

 

///

 

Even before Merlin opened his eyes, he felt the aching pain thrumming along every inch of his body. Gradually, he realised his cheek was leaning against something soft, and his arms were bent at awkward angles. 

He blinked awake with a groan, and as everything came into focus, he remembered what had happened.

He jerked upright. He was on the carpeted floor of a bedroom, but apart from that his surroundings gave nothing away. The paint on the walls was a neutral white, and the bedclothes were a navy gray. There was a nightstand with a lamp on it on the other side of the bed, closest to the open door through which Merlin only saw a blank white wall. There was a window on the wall nearest him, but the curtains were drawn so that Merlin couldn’t place where in the world he was or how he’d gotten there. There were no markers to judge who the room belonged to—no pictures or posters, no frills or decorations or personal knickknacks.

Merlin tried to orient himself. So, he didn’t know where he was. In the long run, that didn’t matter much. What mattered was this: he was certain he knew who’d captured him, and he was certain he had to escape. But, he wasn’t so certain on whether Arthur had been taken, too. That, more than anything, sat at the forefront of his panicked mind.

He tried to push those thoughts away for the moment. Now, he had to focus on the problem at hand: His wrists were shackled to the end bar of the wooden headboard. Instinctually, Merlin gave an alarmed tug. The chain links wrapped around the bar scraped the wood but did not give way.

The chains were familiar. They were the same cold black ones Mordred had used on the knights in Tintagel. The enchantment placed on them tingled in the back on Merlin’s mind and tickled at the already irritated flesh of his wrists. The iron was heavy and, upon inspection, he realised there wasn’t a break in the metal.

No opening. No key lock. Nothing.

His eyes flashed, commanding them open as he had the last time. Only, now the cuffs didn’t fall away. They glowed in a sparkling golden light that quickly faded back to hard matted black as if the light was seeping into the iron grooves. Merlin shook his head, wondering if he’d thought of the wrong incantation by mistake in his panic. It had been so long since he’d done that, but it was possible.

Forcing himself to think clearly, his eyes yielded to gold again. Again, the metal illuminated, but did not fall away. 

“I wouldn’t keep that up if I were you,” came a voice from the doorway. It was too young to sound so cynical. It made Merlin’s blood run cold.

Before he craned his neck to look over the mattress, he knew whom he’d find. 

Mordred.

Merlin schooled the fear out of his features before facing Mordred. He put on a mask, trying to seem nonchalant and completely in control, if not mildly perturbed at his current predicament. He made sure to hold Mordred’s eyes, still as bright and icy as they’d been the day Merlin first met him.

“The chains are enchanted so that the prisoner cannot break free of them,” Mordred gloated as he paced further into the room. He rested at the base of the bed in front of Merlin. “Only another with magic can open them.” His lips quirked as he said it, revelling in Merlin’s understanding that only Mordred or Morgana could free him—and that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. 

“I assure you, the enchantment works,” Mordred continued after the pause. “Morgana placed it upon those chains herself.” 

It only discomforted Merlin more. If anyone else had cast the spell, he’d be able to break out of the chains easily enough. But Merlin knew what kind of power Morgana possessed. It furled inside of her like a wildfire, strong and destructive.

Merlin lifted his chin, trying to seem unaffected. “Where’s Arthur?” he demanded, keeping his tone even.

Mordred’s brows knitted together. “Arthur? He must be back in Winchester by now.”

It could have been a trick, but something told Merlin it wasn’t. So, Arthur was safe. Merlin could stop fretting. However, if Merlin was the only one captured, it did beg the question: “What do you want with me?”

“To behave yourself. The queen wishes to speak with you.” Mordred gave him a very severe look that promised consequences if Merlin stepped out of line. “I’ll take you to her. For that, I must _temporarily_ free you of the chain. Do I have your word that you will not try anything, Merlin?” 

Merlin wanted to laugh. But then he considered. Perhaps Arthur would benefit from a face-to-face meeting with Morgana. Merlin could try to glean some information from her. If nothing else, he could put the fear of god into her. Or, the fear of Emrys, which was arguably worse for Morgana. Maybe it would be enough to get her to stop whatever she was planning next.

Beyond that, Merlin was curious. Why did Morgana want to talk to him? It seemed fairly obvious as to why she’d captured him: Arthur would hold off the coronation until Merlin was safe again, giving Morgana the time to kill him before he officially became king. She was no doubt expecting Arthur to march on the Neo base, effectively doing her work for her.

Why then, Merlin wondered, was a conversation necessary?

Merlin nodded curtly, knowing it was best to gather as much information as he could before escaping. Mordred would no doubt bring him back to this same room after Morgana was finished. He’d have to restrain Merlin again, and that would be Merlin’s opportunity to escape.

Cautiously, one eye always on Merlin, Mordred stepped forward and held his hand close to the iron around one of Merlin’s wrists. Merlin watched Mordred’s every move with guarded attentiveness. He’d need to know for later.

Mordred muttered an incantation, and the chains wrapped around the bedpost unlatched from the cuffs, which remained unbroken on Merlin’s wrists. With the link broken and the chain whipping around the wooden bar, both Merlin’s arms fell down before he could catch them. He hadn’t realised the tension that had formed in his shoulders until it was relieved. Quickly, clearly expecting Merlin to go back on his promise, Mordred seized the chain, snatched Merlin’s hands, and reattached the shackles with magic.

He got to his feet. “Stand up.”

Merlin glowered at Mordred through his eyelashes before attempting to do so. His legs were wobbly with disuse, and his spine protested where he must have landed on it after the rock fall. It didn’t help that his restraints were heavy. They tugged at his arms and pulled on his shoulders enough to feel like their weight would dislocate his joints if he let them fall unsupported. 

After he’d gotten up, Mordred gripped him by the shoulder and pushed him forward. Merlin tried not to become off-balanced by the chains.

“Walk,” Mordred ordered.

Merlin looked over his shoulder at Mordred’s stony expression. “If you expect me to act like a dog, you should find a lead.”

“We already have a collar,” Mordred responded, and Merlin instantly remembered the chain that had been fitted around Gwaine’s neck. “You may try to break your hands to free yourself, but would you choke the life out of yourself to escape?” He tilted his head as though inspecting Merlin. “I wonder if that would kill you.”

Understanding the threat, Merlin faced forward and walked, following Mordred’s directions on where to turn.

He was brought down a hall and passed a couple of closed doors. There was still nothing to clue him in on his surroundings. There must have been pictures on the wall once, judging by the rectangle discolorations in the paint and the nail holes in the plaster, but they’d all been removed. He seemed to have been in a house rather than a flat, if the layout of the rooms was anything to go by.

At the end of the hall, a man in head-to-toe Kevlar was positioned. He was holding an automatic rifle between his hands, and Merlin wondered if that was supposed to intimidate him. 

It did. A little. But he wasn’t about to let that show, so he made himself as tall as he could as he passed the man.

Mordred had him turn right into a kitchen so outdated it looked like it belonged in a seventies sitcom. There was one window over the sink, but the lace curtains were drawn over it so Merlin couldn’t see outside.

Morgana was sitting at the breakfast table, munching on an assortment of overgrown fruits and meats as though she’d lived in this home for years. The sight of the food made Merlin realise how hungry he was, but he ignored it. It was unlikely he’d get anything to eat. 

Merlin stopped walking as soon as he saw her. She, however, didn’t pause for a moment. She took a long sip from the tea in her mug and stared at him over the rim, sizing him up. Her eyes stung like a snakebite, as they always had when they bored into him.

Merlin felt his magic thrashing against his skin in her presence.

“Emrys,” Morgana said pleasantly, suddenly, as though greeting an old friend. “How good of you to join me. Sit.”

Mordred pulled out the chair opposite Morgana. Merlin couldn’t help but eye them both suspiciously, expecting the chair to sprout more chains as soon as he sat down. He did so nonetheless, and the chair proved to be just as innocuous as any other. 

Morgana’s eyes languidly swept him up and down, no doubt enjoying every moment of seeing him at her mercy. He remembered the last time she’d held him captive, and the denied strange rush she had given him whenever she stood too close or tightened the bonds around his wrists. There was a time when he wouldn’t have hated himself so much for that excitement.

Be he did hate it now, especially when he thought back to the dreams Morgana had implanted in him. 

“I thought it was time for us to have a little chat,” Morgana said once he was fully seated.

“Right,” Merlin bit out, hefting his chains from beneath the table and crashing them on the top so Morgana’s lunch rattled. “A _chat_.”

At this, Morgana’s expression darkened, as did her tone. “You didn’t expect me to give you the chance to stab me again, did you?”

Merlin remained outwardly neutral. He was all too aware of Mordred hovering over his shoulder, and of Morgana wanting a rise out of him. He wouldn’t give it to her so easily.

“What do you want, Morgana? I’ll never tell you Arthur’s military plans.”

He found it hard to believe that was the reason she’d kidnapped him. She must have known that was never going to happen. But it was the only plausible reason Merlin could come up with for this conversation. 

“Don’t you think I know that? I don’t need to know the plans of your precious _king_.” She spit out the last word like it was poisonous. “I want the same thing I’ve always wanted—Arthur’s head on a spike.”

It seemed like a gruesome image for lunchtime, but this was, after all, Morgana. Blood and guts would have probably been her Saturday morning cartoons, had she been alive during those days. 

Merlin merely rolled his eyes at it. “All this time, and you still resent him. And it’s all for nothing. He’s nothing like Uther, Morgana. You know that.”

“Isn’t he?” she challenged. “He slaughtered thousands of my kind.” 

“ _Your_ kind?” 

“Yes, since you’ve turned your back on us, you’ve no right to count yourself among us. If you could, you would be just as enraged at Arthur for all the killing he’s done. How could you defend him after that?”

“Like you haven’t done the same? He was young and trying to prove himself. _You_ were on a rampage.”

Morgana leaned back, playing it cool. “I neutralised anyone who defied me.”

“You _murdered_ people who wouldn’t help you.”

“And Arthur made them live in fear. Even after Uther’s death, he kept the ban on magic,” she countered. “He hates magic.”

Merlin was tired of justifying the laws of a kingdom that had long been overgrown. Arthur had always been fair to magic users in Camelot, when he could be; even if Merlin often hated the politics and pressure that Arthur had to succumb to when magic was involved.

 _My hands are tied by the law_ , Arthur would always say when Merlin tried to change his mind on a prisoner’s sentence. But he saw the toll it put on Arthur when the man or woman was truly innocent of any crime besides practicing magic to protect their children or grow their crops or heal their loved ones’ sicknesses. 

Yes, Merlin was tired of justifying Arthur’s actions—especially to himself. 

“And you didn’t do much to sway his feelings,” Merlin reminded her. “Uther made you both fearful of magic.” He thought back to the days when Morgana’s magic was just budding. She’d been terrified—of Uther, of herself. Merlin never forgave himself for not helping her, and it appeared neither did she. 

“I changed my views. He did not,” Morgana answered, as stubborn as she’d always been.

This conversation would go in circles until dinnertime if Merlin didn’t lead it somewhere else. He groaned at the ceiling and shook his head. “You know as well as I you have no real reason to hate Arthur. You just wanted him dead because he stood in your way to the throne—because he was the legitimate heir, because the people of Camelot loved him—.”

“They were not the only ones who loved him,” she cut in. 

Merlin forgot himself for a moment. Her words hit him like a punch to the gut, robbing him of oxygen. He knew at once why Morgana wanted to speak with him.

She wanted to gloat.

Surely enough, her face lit up in victory. Her eyes briefly flickered to Mordred. “So, it’s true? About you and my dear brother? I must say, when I heard of the announcement that _you_ were to be named consort, I hardly believed it. But, I suppose, Arthur always did like putting servants on my throne.” 

Merlin corrected himself. He tightened his jaw in resolve, not wanting to egg her on. “You didn’t bring me here to gossip. So, is _that_ why? You think Arthur will come here and try to rescue me? You think he won’t know it’s a trap? Arthur’s stupid, but do you really think he’s that stupid?”

It was difficult to not express himself with his hands as he spoke, but the chains prevented it. He often forgot as his anger bubbled. It festered with every word, going against his attempts to remain calm in the face of adversity. 

“I think he’s that arrogant,” Morgana corrected. “He’ll come, just as he always has for those he cares about. Like he once did for his queen.”

The mention of Gwen was meant to do more than wound. It was meant to slice his throat. And perhaps it was meant to put doubt in Merlin’s mind, too. To make him question whether Arthur would actually come for him at all. But he would. That was the problem.

Merlin forced himself to not let Morgana’s slight affect him. If he did that, she would win, even if it were a small victory. 

“And,” Morgana went on after a pause, “then he’ll never become king. His destiny will be for not, and mine will be complete. The Twice Crowned Man will be a name and nothing more.” 

Merlin blinked at that, taken off his guard. He didn’t expect to hear that title. She believed the Twice Crowned King was Arthur—of course; why wouldn’t she? She’d never suspect Cenred, and Merlin wouldn’t divulge the secret. But what prophecy had told Morgana her destiny hinged on the Twice Crowned Kings coronation? He supposed it wasn’t important, so long as she didn’t know she’d failed already.

Or had she? Destiny was still set off track. It could be that this prophecy had no merit, either. Fate could still change.

Intent on not giving away his thoughts, Merlin decided to press on with the conversation.

“If you’re so certain he’ll come, why not just kill me?”

She leaned forward, as though to explain the alphabet to a small child. “Oh, Emrys, we both know I can’t without a sword forged in dragon fire. But perhaps when Mordred is finished with Arthur and his friends, you will have your wish.” Then, she seemed to consider something. She sat back and curled her nose in a snide way. “Or maybe I’ll leave you to rot for the rest of your life knowing you failed him again.” 

 _No_ , Merlin thought furiously. He wouldn’t let that happen, even if it meant being held captive by Morgana forever.

“Or perhaps,” she said, leaning back again coolly in her chair. She surveyed him, her eyes scanning and carving. There was the faintest of grins on her lips. “Neither of those things will be necessary, Emrys. If you see sense.”

Merlin’s brows knitted together. “What sense?” 

“In due time,” Morgana answered vaguely with a wave of her hand. “This is not the last conversation you and I will have. In fact, I think we’ll be spending quite a bit of time together from now on. I’m sure you and I will understand one another very soon.”

Merlin didn’t know what she was playing at, but he didn’t like it. No matter what doubt squirmed inside of him, he forced himself to remain outwardly defiant. Whatever plan she had, it wouldn’t work. He needed her to understand that right now. 

He pushed all of his determination, all of his bone-deep resolve, into the space between them. It thrummed like the heartbeat of a living thing, and he was sure Morgana got the message. She didn’t seem so domineering and, for a moment, her haughty expression faltered.

She was still scared of him. Even when he was in chains.

“I can hardly wait,” he bit out.

Squaring herself, Morgana said, “We’re done here. Mordred, take him to his room. In fact, I think I’ll go with you. I’d like to see the look on his face when he’s imprisoned.” 

Merlin was led out of the kitchen, past the guard, and down the short hall. Morgana and Mordred were at his back. It would be harder to take them both out, but he would be able to do it once his chains were removed.

When he got to the open door to the bedroom in which he’d woken up, he made to turn into it. However, Mordred forestalled him by ordering, “Not there. Keep walking.”

For a couple of seconds, Merlin remained still. He looked into the bedroom longingly, as though it was his safe place. He’d pictured himself escaping inside that room. Now, he had to rework the imagery in an unknown setting. For some reason, it made him nervous. 

Mordred gave him a push forward, and Merlin gulped down his apprehension and moved. He could still escape. The location didn’t matter. He was just psyching himself out.

Only, that bedroom had been the last in the hall. The next door was a small bathroom, Merlin saw when they passed it. Beyond that, straight ahead at the end of the hall, was a door so narrow it couldn’t have been anything but a cupboard.

Merlin’s pulse leapt as he became suddenly aware of what he would be facing if he didn’t get out now.

When they got to it, Mordred reached around Merlin and opened the cupboard door. It was completely barren, save for a steel rod where hangers and clothes should have been hanging beneath a shelf that held only dust.

Mordred turned Merlin around and backed him into the cupboard. He was much too tall, and had to duck below the shelf so low he might have been bowing. Morgana was smirking at him, not at all humble at his forced reverence.

He had to act quickly.

Mordred unshackled the chain. Instantly, Merlin pushed the air with both palms. His irises burned, as did his iron cuffs. Morgana and Mordred were sent flying backwards, their limbs flailing before they knocked against the wall.

He jumped over the unconscious forms and raced for the end of the corridor.

The man in the Kevlar filled out the exit, using his body as a barricade. He levelled his rifle and wasted a few bullets into the floor right in front of Merlin. Reflexively, Merlin jumped backwards to avoid them.

“Hands up!” the guard bellowed, pointing his machine gun at Merlin like he meant business.

With a flick of his chin, Merlin could have gotten the man out of his way. He was about to do just that when something invisible slammed him into the wall next to him like a puppet on a string. Morgana had woken up.

Dazed, Merlin slid to the floor. Morgana came into focus standing over him. Her fingers were curled into her palm tensely, and she glared at Merlin with death in her eyes.

Merlin felt her magic wrapping around him like a noose. His spine arched as he struggled against the sensation. His cuffed hands flew to his neck, like he could tear away a physical thing. But it was inside of him, blocking his air until even the hapless grunts escaping him were silenced.

Just as Merlin’s vision was going dark around the edges like a vignette photograph, Morgana dropped her hand and the tightness in his throat fell away. Merlin drank in air in hefty bouts that burned his lungs. 

In that time, Mordred must have woken up, too. He was at Merlin’s side before Merlin could regain his composure enough to think clearly. He manhandled Merlin to his feet. 

“By all means, Emrys,” Morgana spat at him, “keep trying to escape. Each time you use your magic, your chains collect the power for my weapon.”

Merlin hoped she didn’t catch the flash of shock in his eyes, but he was certain she did, because her smug grin returned.

“How much of your magic do you think I’ll need to destroy Winchester without so much as leaving York?” 

 _York_. So, he was at the Neo base. Escape was becoming less possible by the moment, and somewhere inside of him, he thought that was for the best. 

Mordred’s grip tightened and he made Merlin stumble back to the cupboard.

Merlin was dragged inside, his arms were lifted, and the chain was hooked around the steel rod. 

“Morgana, no—,” he tried, his voice thick and gravely. He didn’t know what he was going to say next, but it seemed like a good idea to keep her talking until he could come up with a plan.

However, Morgana’s eyes on him tugged heavier than his chains. It burned more than the muscles in his legs as they strained to support his weight while bent so awkwardly at the knees.

Behind them, still at the end of the hall, the guard remained with his gun at the ready.

“Morgana!”

The door slammed and inch from his nose. He was instantly submerged into pitch darkness. His breaths were louder in the tiny space. His magic beat around inside of him, desperate for a way out. It made him want to rage, to tear the house down to the nubs with everyone inside of it.

Some all-powerful sorcerer he was, trapped in a cupboard. And for what? Destiny wasn’t supposed to do this to him! Arthur was meant to return; no one else! Merlin was supposed to be at _Arthur’s_ side, not held captive by Morgana!

He jerked forward, his body crashing into the wood of the door and his shoulders spiking with white-hot pain when his chains prevented him from going any further. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this! 

“ _Morgana_!”

 

///

 

“Well, it’s broken,” Gaius said.

Gwen stood in the manor’s parlour, her eyes on Arthur, sitting on the sofa, and Gaius, leaning over him. Gaius had been prodding at the bruise discolouring Arthur’s swollen arm. Every time he touched a new area, no matter how gentle, Arthur hissed and gritted his teeth in pain. 

“How bad is it?” she worried, chewing on her thumbnail and trying to keep her eyes off of Arthur’s black and blue skin. 

“Without a proper x-ray at the hospital, it’s hard to say,” Gaius told them, standing up. “But it seems to me that it’s more than just a fracture. It could be serious. You may not have use of the arm for a month or two, sire.” 

Arthur shook his head, as if his determination alone could heal the bone. “I’ll be fine. This isn’t my first broken bone.” 

Gwen remembered the other bones Arthur had broken: once, when he was a young prince showing off in tourney, and had taken a mace to the collarbone; again as prince when he’d been thrown from his horse and broken a rib; and another memorable instance, not long after their marriage, when they were strolling through the forest and he slipped down an incline, fracturing his ankle in the process. She tried not to smile at the memory of the last occurrence.

“Yes, but this is the first time your sword arm is broken,” Gaius told him sternly, his eyebrow raising sternly.

Arthur huffed, a bit like a child. “How am I supposed to fight if my arm’s in cast?” 

“You’re not,” Gwen ordered.

“She’s right. You must allow it to heal,” Gaius agreed. 

Arthur sighed again and fell back against the sofa. He looked towards the window, his jaw brooding. Gwen knew what he was thinking, because she was thinking it, too: if Merlin were here, he’d be able to heal it. 

She wondered, “Might one of the Druids be able to heal it?” 

“Not completely,” Gaius told her. “They certainly will be able to help with the pain, but if the break is as bad as I suspect it is, their magic will do little in the ways of healing it. The Druids only possess enough power to fix superficial wounds. The only person powerful to enough for something like this is—.” He stopped dead, like his thoughts finally caught up to him. His lips thinned solemnly.

“I see,” Gwen breathed, accepting the confirmation of her assumption. “Well, then, we must do this the old fashioned way. Will one of the doctors be able to fit Arthur with a splint?”

Arthur scoffed.

“Yes,” said Gaius. “It shouldn’t take long. Arthur, we should go to the hospital at once.” 

Before Arthur made a reply, Ainsworth came into the room. He bowed his head, even though Arthur’s back was to him, and said, “Sire, you are needed at Guildhall.” 

Arthur’s nose curled in confusion. “What for? All the committee members have gone home.”

Once it was clear the coronation would have to be postponed, the city began emptying out. Out of the committee, only Simmons remained with the intention of setting a new date for the crowning. From what she’d told Gwen, the committee’s sights were set on the week after next. 

“The message is from Chief Aurora, sire.”

“Aurora?” Gwen questioned.

“Indeed, ma’am. A number of Druids have descended upon her camp earlier this afternoon. Their chiefs wish for an audience with the king.”

Gwen’s lips parted in shock. She turned to Gaius, and then to Arthur. Both of them wore the same expression she did. At once, Arthur got eagerly to his feet.

“Have them gather in Guildhall. And summon Prime Minister Simmons. I’ll attend them at once.” 

Ainsworth bowed again and left.

“Arthur, I know what you’re thinking,” Gwen said, her tone warning.

“With more magic on our side, we’ll be able to take on the Neos. This changes everything, Guinevere! We can save Merlin.” His eyes were wide—manic, almost. 

Gwen was more wary. She hoped these Druids were on their side, like Aurora and her tribe, but they had to proceed with caution. Their arrival, so soon after Merlin abduction, was worrisome. “We don’t know what they want yet.” 

“There’s only one way to find out.” 

An hour later, they gathered in Guildhall. Aurora and her councillors, the knights, and Simmons and her advisors were all in attendance. Three Druid chiefs stood before them: a man named Robert, leader of a tribe from Norfolk; Millicent, her tribe from the outskirts of Cardiff; and once other, now introducing himself.

“Chief Jeremy, my king, from the Wye Valley,” he said. 

Arthur looked to Simmons. “Prime Minister, that’s in your province. Have you heard of such a tribe?” 

“I believe I may have,” she considered, and looked to Jeremy. “You live in the forest. Forgive me, but I was led to believe you were some kind of religious commune.”

In a way, Gwen considered, she was correct. The Druids were somewhat cultish. 

Jeremy didn’t appear slighted in the least. “We keep to ourselves. Our people are safer that way.” 

“Then, why have you come now?” Arthur wondered.

“For you,” was the answer, “on your coronation day. We don’t have any gifts to offer, I’m afraid. But our three tribes have come together to offer our allegiance to the Once and Future King—,” he bowed his head as he said it, as did the other two. “And the Emrys.” He looked up, his eyes searching for a face he did not find.

Gwen steadied herself, trying not to think of Merlin. Arthur, however, tensed. 

“You must know, then, that the coronation did not take place,” Arthur admitted.

“Chief Aurora has told us,” Jeremy said. He looked at her with some scrutiny, perhaps because she was so young. Something inside Gwen became defensive at that, but she let it go. “But she had not said much else.” 

“The coronation is to be postponed until Queen Morgana is defeated,” Arthur announced with resolve. 

Gwen’s chest tightened. She looked at Simmons, who steeled her jaw in attempt to hold in a stream of words that would no doubt come later. 

“I see,” said the Druid chief. “Nonetheless, we offer our services to you, my king. If I may ask, where is Emrys? We would very much like to see him.”

“Why?”

All three chiefs seemed thrown by the question.

“Because . . . We would like to give him our reverence in person.”

A beat. And then, “The king consort is away on an urgent matter. He will return soon. In the meantime, you are welcome to stay in the city. Although, I wish to know what kind of allegiance you plan to offer. Is it your support in name alone, or do you wish to join the fight against the Neo army?”

Now, it was Gwen’s turn to hold her tongue. Arthur was getting ahead of himself. As it had been with Aurora’s tribe, this reception was the first of many conversations. If Arthur reacted too quickly, it could spell disaster. Gwen wanted to believe these Druids were true, but they could not afford to assume anything at the moment. The committee certainly would have reservations of their own. 

“My king, we are peaceful people,” Jeremy told him, almost apologetically. “None of us have ever been in battle before. But, we are ready to serve in whatever way you see fit.”

Arthur nodded, apparently accepting the answer. “Then, I welcome you and your people. Chief Aurora will be my liaison. Bring to her whatever needs you require.”

The Druids bowed their heads; so did Aurora. As the reception disbursed, Gwen saw Simmons glaring at Arthur with intent. Gwen stayed her with a look of her own, trying to convey that she should speak with Arthur first. Simmons got the message and left, too, though she didn’t look very happy about it. 

“Arthur,” Gwen said when everyone but they were present. 

“Can it wait?” Arthur asked. “I’m tired, Guinevere. It’s been a long day. I need to think about what to do next.” 

She was glad, at least, he was finally deciding to think. She would not deny him that.

“ _I_ think,” she said tenderly, “next, we should take you to hospital and get your arm fixed.”

He sighed, but eventually nodded his consent.

 

///

 

He couldn’t pinpoint when exactly his thoughts began to sluggishly drift away from him. He lay on the edge of sleep, feeling the beta waves hum through his head, carrying away the conscious world. He must have stayed that way for hours, with his body sinking heavily around him but his mind never allowing him to fully take the plunge into sleep. 

Someone else was in the room with him. Arthur didn’t know how he knew it, whether by some instinct or a sixth sense, but he felt the presence. It burned into his back and sent tingles down his spine. Somehow, he knew the presence meant him no harm. It felt familiar, like it belonged, a presence he’d had at his side for so long that he’d forgotten it wasn’t a part of him. A presence he never even noticed was there until it was gone. 

Slowly, he realised he should look over his shoulder at it.

His eyelids were weights when he blinked them open, and his skin still thrummed with numb sleep. He swivelled his neck to see who was there.

Standing amongst the flagstone floors and the tall wooden doors was Merlin, one side of his face burning with the golden light from the hearth.

Arthur felt his breath leave him in a way that sounded very much like Merlin’s name.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes, wondering if he was imagining things. However, when his vision came back into focus, Merlin was still there. He stood unmoving, not even to blink, like he didn’t want to look away from Arthur.

He said nothing for a long time, until he whispered, “Arthur? Can you see me?”

“See you? Of course, I can see you!”

Arthur fought with the blankets and jumped out of bed. He heard himself laughing, unable to keep his happiness in his chest. It caused a funny kind of ache, one he remembered feeling before. Morgana had kidnapped Merlin then, too; and, impossibly, Merlin had found his way back. 

The stones were warm under his feet as he rushed for Merlin and collided against him in an embrace. Merlin collapsed into him, allowing himself to feel his exhaustion.   Arthur heard Merlin’s breath stumble in and out. 

For a moment, Arthur did nothing but hold him. He closed his eyes, and felt Merlin’s fingers tangle in the hairs on the back of his head. 

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Arthur admitted, and buried his face into the crook of Merlin’s neck. Merlin’s scent was a memory—country fields with wheat stocks swaying in the breeze, a sleepy campfire under a canopy of trees on a hunting trip, Hunith’s terrible porridge that Arthur had learned to swallow down without complaint when their travels took them through Ealdor, summer swims in warm streams, and every rainy morning Arthur had ever woken up to.

“Thought you’d get rid of me so easily?” Merlin laughed. It sounded thick. 

Arthur grinned so widely he was certain Merlin could feel it against his skin. He exhumed himself, but stayed close. “I’d hoped.” 

Merlin kept his hands in Arthur’s hair, and Arthur refused to unwrap his arms from around Merlin’s hips.

“How did you escape?” Arthur asked, already in awe of the answer—of Merlin. He was an impossible thing made flesh.

Merlin’s face fell. That hopelessly content twinkle dulled from his eyes. Already, Arthur was worried.

“I didn’t.” 

And now, Arthur was confused. He shook his head. Deep down, he knew he already believed it. It was a natural reflex to trust Merlin. But he denied it. “What are you talking about?” Of course, Merlin had escaped. He was standing right in front of Arthur, in Arthur’s arms.

Merlin swallowed thickly. He looked on the verge of tears. “You’re asleep.” 

Again, Arthur was torn between what he believed and what he wanted to believe. And then, he got a better look at the room he was in. It was his chambers in Camelot. How had he not realised that before?

He withered. “This is a dream.”

“Yes,” Merlin answered, even though it hadn’t been a question.

“You’re not really here.”

Arthur hated himself for thinking it would be so easy to get Merlin back.

Merlin’s grip on his hair tightened. It was real pressure; Arthur could feel it. “It’s really me,” Merlin promised.

Arthur believed him. 

“I can’t stay long. It’s taking a lot of magic to be here. I can’t give Morgana any more than is necessary.”

Merlin sounded urgent. He was speaking too quickly now, and Arthur needed him to slow down. 

“What are you saying? Give her what?” 

“My _magic_ ,” Merlin huffed impatiently, his tone urging Arthur to keep up, but Arthur didn’t know where he was being led. “The shackles she put on me—I can’t use my magic or else they’ll absorb it. She wants it for her weapon.” 

Arthur ground his teeth. All he heard was the word _shackles_. 

“I didn’t want to give her any of my magic, but I needed to talk to you.” 

Finally, the other words processed. Merlin had taken a gamble in using his magic. Arthur didn’t know how much Morgana needed to make her weapon ultimate in its power, but he prayed Merlin knew what he was doing. If Merlin thought this a necessary risk, he must have had a plan. 

Hopefully, it was an escape plan, and he needed Arthur’s help in its execution.

“Where is she keeping you? The Neo Base? Where specifically?” Arthur asked, getting ahead of himself. 

Merlin sucked in a breath and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“Of course, it matters! How am I supposed to—?”

“You can’t come for me!”

Arthur wasn’t sure how to react other than utter silence. His mind blanked. Surely, Merlin wasn’t telling Arthur to leave him as Morgana’s prisoner.

Slowly, the cogs of Arthur’s mind began to creak back into life.

“How can you ask me to do that?” he said, unsure whether it made him sound strong or desperate. 

Merlin thinned his lips in apology. “Arthur, that’s why I’m here. Please don’t come for me.”

Arthur extracted himself from Merlin and paced away. He wanted to be furious. How could Merlin do that to him? How could Merlin dangle hope in arm’s reach and then tear it away? How could Merlin expect Arthur to leave him? 

“She _wants_ you to come to the base, Arthur. She wants you where she has the advantage. It’s not just my magic she wants; it’s you, too— _dead_. If you come here, she’ll destroy you.”

Arthur heaved out a breath and put his hands on his hips. He wouldn’t accept it. He shook his head at the floor.

“There must be a way,” he said, waving a hand through the air as he turned back to Merlin. He briefly noticed that he had use of the arm, that there was no sharp pain in it, if only in the dream. 

“There is,” Merlin urged. “We can use this to our advantage. I can find out her every move. You can be one step ahead of her.” 

“No. That’s what Cenred’s for.”

“Cenred isn’t as close to her as I am! Arthur—.” Merlin rushed up to him, making sure Arthur had his full attention. “Use me.”

Arthur didn’t want to consider it. The soldier in him knew it was a good strategy, but the human part of him only wanted Merlin back safe.

“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Morgana will be suspicious if I do nothing.”

“You won’t be doing nothing,” Merlin reminded him. “You’ll continue with things as planned.”

 _Things_. Arthur scoffed. “You mean the coronation.” 

There was no way Arthur was doing that without Merlin present. That’s where he drew the line.

Again, Merlin paused, looking pained, but he fought it down. “Yes, the coronation.” 

Arthur scoffed again, louder this time. “No. Not without you.”

Before Arthur finished his protest, Merlin argued back, “Yes, without me! Why do you think all this happened so close to the coronation? Morgana thinks she can change destiny. She thinks, as long as you aren’t king, she can win. Take away her hope, Arthur. You _must_ be crowned.”

If Merlin wasn’t going to be selfish, Arthur would be selfish for him.

“You’ve waited you whole life for that day!” Arthur yelled, fire in his tone. 

Merlin matched his volume. “Yes, I did! So let it come with or without me! It doesn’t matter!”

“Stop saying that! It _does_ matter!”

Maybe Arthur was being selfish for himself, too. He needed Merlin at the coronation. The crown would be heavy enough as it was. Without Merlin at his side, it would be an impossible weight to bear. Arthur could not afford to begin his reign with self-doubt. It was no longer the future of a kingdom at stake; it was the future itself. Everything he did set precedence. Everything he did mattered. 

 _Merlin_ mattered. Or, at least, he did to Arthur, powerful sorcerer or servant. Arthur needed him.

Merlin must have sensed this, because he dropped his voice again. “Hey.” He wrapped his hand around the back of Arthur neck. There was a smile on his face—a fragile, heartbroken thing, more for Arthur’s benefit than his own. It had been the last sight Arthur had seen in his first life. That smile. 

“Maybe I won’t be there for the first days of your reign, but I will be there every day after. I won’t miss a single one.”

Arthur’s eyes were stinging. He tried to blink back the water lining his lashes, but all it did was make them fall.

Merlin drew him in closer until their foreheads touched.

“I didn’t wait all my life for your coronation, you clotpole. I waited all my life for you.”

Arthur still didn’t know why anyone would wait that long for either, but all he wanted was to one day prove he’d been worth it.

“Promise me you’ll go through with the coronation,” Merlin said like it was the most important thing in the world. To him, it was. “Promise me, Arthur.” 

“I can’t,” Arthur whispered. “Merlin, my soul.”

“I mean it,” Merlin stressed. “Promise me, or I’ll use my magic to kick your arse.” 

He was smiling again, this time genuinely. It made the corners of Arthur’s lips tug up, too, despite himself.

“Liar.”

Merlin kissed him, and Arthur tried to forget it was only a dream.

When the kiss broke, Merlin looked harried. “I have to go.”

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat. Already, he felt himself shaking off sleep. The room around him was beginning to combine with reality, making it a strange mix between his room in Camelot and his room in the manor.

Arthur tried to stop it, but he knew there was no point.

“Tell me you’ll come back tomorrow,” Arthur said quickly, wanting to get one last word in.

“I can’t. I told you, I can’t let her have my magic.”

“Then, tell me you’ll come back.”

“I’ll come back.” Merlin voice sounded faded now, distant, like they were on separate shores of a lake. Only the wind carried his voice.

“And be careful!” But Arthur wasn’t sure Merlin could hear him anymore.

Arthur called his name. He wanted him to stay. How could he leave him in Morgana’s hold?

“Remember, you promised!” 

But Arthur hadn’t promised anything. 

“Please, remember . . .”

There was a breath like waking up.

It was daylight. Arthur was in bed again, right where he’d fallen asleep. He jolted into consciousness and whipped around to look over his shoulder. His pulse pounded against him, and his arm thudded dully. 

He settled despondently. Merlin wasn’t there.

 

///

 

Two hours later, Arthur sat behind his desk in his study. Gwen, Gaius, and Simmons were gathered around him, all discussing Merlin’s fate. Arthur slumped. He felt like he hadn’t slept a wink, but he wouldn’t rest until Merlin was rescued.

He couldn’t promise Merlin to stay away. And he definitely couldn’t go on with the coronation.

“If he can contact us with regular reports, I believe he should stay where he is,” Simmons said with her usual amount of pragmatism. 

“But there won’t be regular reports,” said Gwen, not necessarily arguing. Already knew already that she agreed with Merlin’s decision. “Merlin told Arthur he couldn’t contact him unless it’s important.” 

“That’s still good enough for me.”

“Yes, but we must decide if it’s worth the risk. He may be spying on Morgana, but there’s no telling what she’ll do to get what she wants from him.”

Arthur tightened his jaw. He’d pointedly not thought about that. Morgana was probably having the time of her life. Never had he truly considered how sadistic she could be. 

“I don’t believe Merlin would ever give his magic to her,” Gaius defended. 

“Nor would I give her what she desires under normal circumstances,” Gwen reasoned, “but you and I have both been at her mercy before, Gaius. We both resisted, but she’s relentless.” 

“Merlin is stronger than I, Gwen,” said Gaius, “and more resilient against her magic than any of us.” 

Arthur turned his attention towards the window. The trees were budding in the garden. He never thought he’d see that again. If summer were ever to come, the world needed Merlin. Only he could continue to heal the earth. In Morgana’s hands, his magic would destroy it.

Arthur didn’t want Merlin to have to be strong or resilient. He wanted summertime. 

“Should we risk that?” Gwen asked again.

“I don’t think we should risk our army for one man,” said Simmons.

“The one man with the power to take on _Morgana’s_ army?” Gwen reminded her.

“We have the Druids. We have the bullets that can kill her army. I’m sorry, I don’t want him to suffer any more than you do, but if he doesn’t want to be saved, why are we even talking about this? When Arthur is crowned, Morgana’s morale will be shaken. That will weaken her.” 

“Or anger her,” Gwen pointed out. “Even if Arthur is crowned, she won’t stop trying.”

“And we’ll have another man on the inside to tell us her next move. You trust Merlin more than you do Cenred, surely?”

“Of course!” 

“Then, the odds are stacked in our favour.”

“Not necessarily. If Morgana gets a hold of Merlin’s magic, that’s it for us. She will kill everyone the world over if she wants to.”

“I think that’s a rather big _if_ , Gwen,” said Gaius. “I have faith in Merlin. I believe he knows what he’s doing.”

Arthur wanted to laugh. He trusted Merlin with his life, but Merlin had been wrong before. He was too flippant with his own well-being. Arthur didn’t trust Merlin with his own life at all. 

Simmons folded her arms over her chest. “We can put it to a committee vote to postpone the coronation, but I can’t see that as the outcome. I’ll vote for it to move forward.”

Gwen considered, seeming to wrestle with the decision for a moment. Finally, she said, “And I will support you.”

“No.” Arthur wasn’t sure he’d said it aloud until he noticed everyone had fallen silent. They were all looking at him.

His voice hadn’t sounded like his own. It was dry and brittle, too exhausted.

He looked back at them. He’d made his decision. He stood up to give it.

“We won’t move forward until the king consort is home. I don’t care if he wants to be rescued or not. I’ll drag him back to Winchester myself if I need to.” 

“Arthur—,” Gwen began, but Arthur didn’t want to hear it. He held up his palm to silence her.

“I don’t mean to risk the lives of our soldiers for this. I only ask for a small group to accompany me. I will appeal to the Druids for their help in securing us. Inside the base, Cenred and his followers will be poised to help us. We must get word to him and begin planning immediately.” 

“Arthur, your arm is broken! You can’t even wield a sword,” Simmons reminded him, like he needed it. The sling and cast were already annoying him to no end. They uncomfortably restricted movement—and they were itchy. 

“I can’t allow you to do this,” Simmons adamantly continued. “I understand you’re hell bent on getting him back, but the committee will never allow you to use our soldiers.”

“I have my knights.” They’d follow him to York. They’d bring their friend home.

Simmons allowed, “Then, they should go without you.” 

Arthur groaned. This wasn’t an argument.

“Honestly, Arthur, you’re to be the king. Our _leader_. Can you understand the importance of that for one moment? That means you’ll have to let others go on your suicide missions for you!”

Now, she sounded like his father.

“I can’t ask my men to risk themselves when I’m not willing to make the same sacrifice.”

“Which is why you should think twice before sending anyone on missions like these.”

“How can the people of Britain expect me to protect them if I can’t even protect my own husband?”

“You’re putting sentiment in front of your duties.”

“I don’t see it that way. The people won’t place their trust in a king who allows others to fight his battles for him.”

Gwen was looking at him with barely concealed pride, but Simmons was glaring at him like he was an idiot.

“No one expects a king to go into battle anymore, not like they did in your time.”

The world hadn’t changed that much, surely. People still needed someone to believe in. Arthur wasn’t sure he was the right man, but Merlin did, so he’d have to try.

“My time,” Arthur echoed. “I’m tired of people saying that as if my kingdom is solely in the past. _This_ is my time. Right now. And, as king, I will do what I think is right. If I can’t do that, you might not want to crown me at all.” 

At once, something close to regret struck Arthur. He wasn't certain he should have challenged her like that. She could go to the committee and tell them he wasn’t fit to lead. They could vote him out.  
  
Let them.  
  
This is wasn’t only about Merlin anymore. It was about who he'd be as a king. He had to do what he knew to be right.  
  
Simmons looked for a moment as though she’d continue to argue, but she exhaled. And conceded. “If we do this, we have to be smart about it. Your safety is the most important thing, Arthur. That means we have to come up with a plan the entire committee is comfortable with—to be executed _after_ your arm is healed. Is that clear?”  
  
Arthur nodded, grateful to be given this chance. “Understood.”  
  
“No going rogue!” she stressed, pointing at him to punctuate her point. “The last thing we need is for you to wind up dead.”  
  
Arthur smirked softly, feeling a little better for her support. When the two of them were on the same page, there had been nothing they couldn’t accomplish so far. “Don't worry about that. I’ll probably come back to life, anyway.”

Gaius didn't look very amused. Gwen rolled her eyes.

Simmons lifted a brow. “Well, I’m certainly not waiting a thousand years to find out.”


	2. Chapter 2

The tide of the war had turned in recent weeks, thanks to the development of Dagnija’s bullets. The British were no longer in a stalemate with the Neos, merely pushing them back and waiting for them to recover. Now, the British were winning.

The knights led battles through the provinces and into the Neo-Territory. Arthur was with them, strategizing and deciding where to go next, despite his inability to fight due to his arm; but his goal wasn’t solely to liberate the slave towns in the Territory and defeat the Neos. Each battle led them closer to York. 

On that rainy April day, they won a skirmish eighty miles from the Neo Base, on the open rolling hills of Goodshaw Fold. Lancelot surveyed the iron sky as fat drops rained down on the scene before him: soldiers milling about, covering their fallen brothers with white sheets, and carrying the dead Neos off to the bottom of the hill. He looked to his left, where Arthur was standing nearby the jeeps, Nathara at his side. They were silent as they watched the proceedings.

Lancelot made for them, ignoring the biting cold numbing his hands. The chill had been creeping back into the fabric of the world, and it seemed to become worse the more north they went. It was too frigid for springtime. He bowed his head slightly when he got close to Arthur.

“The soldiers wish to know what to do with our dead,” he asked. “Should we bury them here or bring them back to Winchester for a ceremony?” 

Arthur made no answer. He kept his eyes forward, only blinking when the rain dripped from his hair and covered his lashes. He did not appear to have even heard Lancelot, though Nathara did give him her attention. 

“Arthur?” he asked, and hoped Arthur would choose to return to Winchester. They had been on the road for three weeks, and were running short on supplies. What was meant to be a five-day campaign to the borderlands had gone on long enough. They’d lost their fair share of soldiers along the way, and needed to return to the city to regroup.

But Lancelot knew that Arthur was not looking at the hills before him. His eyes were on the horizon, in the direction of the Neo Base. In Merlin’s direction. 

He had agreed to the committee’s demands of staying away from York until they had a viable plan, but that didn’t keep Arthur from doing his damnedest to accelerate the process. It was what all these skirmishes were supposed to achieve in the end, Lancelot assumed: to cripple the Neos until York was left vulnerable. Lancelot assumed the committee hadn’t given the plan their blessing, if Arthur’s disposition of late was anything to go by. 

His moods were short and quick to anger, born from the disuse of his arm and Merlin’s absence. Arthur was secretive, too, never telling any of the knights his plans on where they’d be led next, not until they were on their way. He kept his own council more often than not, only ever summoning Nathara to his tent to discuss matters with her. In short, he was obsessed with the task at hand. He would not rest—and thus, neither would anyone else—until Merlin was home.

Before Arthur made a reply, Leon’s voice sounded through the rain. “Sire.”

All three of them looked over to see him hustling up. “We found a Neo soldier left alive,” Leon reported, sounding out of breath.

Arthur straightened out. “Where?” 

Leon pointed to the neighbouring hill. “Gwaine and Percival have him.”

“I’ll go to them,” said Arthur. “Find Aurora and bring here there.” 

Leon bowed and rushed off again. 

“Nathara, Lancelot, with me.” 

When they reached Gwaine and Percival, Lancelot saw a man in black Kevlar on the ground before them. His hands were bound before him for good measure and he’d been stripped of his weapons. There was a gash on his temple, bleeding bright red into his short black hair and discolouring his brown skin. His expression turned hateful when he saw Arthur, but his laboured breath picked up, giving away the quickening of his heart rate.

“He’s not talking,” Gwaine said, glancing fractionally at Arthur. His attention remained on the enemy soldier.

“He won’t even tell us his name and rank,” Percival added.

Arthur stepped closer. “You know who I am. Will you tell _me_ your rank?” 

The soldier glared at each of them in turn, taking his time before returning his eyes to Arthur. “Lieutenant Colonel,” he said at last.

“Lieutenant Colonel, where are you stationed? Not here in Goodshaw Ford. There are no military camps nearby.”

There were sloshing footsteps behind them, and Lancelot briefly looked over his shoulder to find Leon, Aurora, and Thomas settling in behind them. Leon came to stand next to Lancelot, but the two Druids kept their distance. Aurora’s eyes were wide as she looked down at the wounded Neo. 

“In fact, the closest base is the queen’s in York,” Arthur went on in the soldier’s silence. “Is that where you were sent from?”

Lancelot steeled his jaw, his gaze no longer able to tear itself from Arthur. Arthur held a dangerous look about him, with gritted teeth and a wildness to his eyes, which darkened from their normal bright blue like the sky above. The rain browned his damp hair and cut zigzags across his skin.

The Lieutenant Colonel made no reply.

“Speak to the king,” Gwaine warned him.

Nathara, hovering close to Arthur’s shoulder, moved to pull one of her swords from her belt. “I can make him talk.”

Lancelot grabbed her arm before her weapon was even drawn. She gave him a hostile look, full of an unspoken threat. Lancelot did not release her until Arthur said, “That won’t be necessary. Aurora, come here.”

Lancelot loosened his grip, and Nathara tugged out of it. Behind them, Aurora gave Thomas a hesitant look. He nodded in encouragement, and she stepped forward. She did not have to ask Arthur what he required of her. She had already done this twice before—both times to no avail.

Aurora stared hard at the soldier for a long time. He stared back, at first with determination, and then with growing uncertainty, as she felt around his mind.

It felt like it had gone on for ages. With every passing moment, Aurora’s face reddened with exertion and her eyes narrowed in effort. At last, she tore her eyes from the soldier and looked away to collect herself. Like a guilty child, she turned her gaze to Arthur. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t find anything about . . . I—I don’t think he knows anything." 

Arthur wouldn’t accept it. “He must. He’s an officer from York. Try again.” 

“Arthur, please,” Thomas urged. He put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “She’s tired. Maybe with some rest—.”

“She needs to try again,” Arthur cut in, making every effort to remain patient, but Lancelot knew his blood was boiling.

Lancelot felt his own pulse quicken, too, as he watched Arthur. Around him, his fellow knights were looking on in wary anticipation, each expecting a bomb to explode. 

“But he doesn’t know—,” Aurora began to say, but Arthur grunted and turned his attention away from her. 

All patience worn out, Arthur drew his sword—a bit awkwardly with his left hand—and stood over the soldier, holding its tip to his throat. “Tell me all you know of Morgana’s plans for Emrys! Where is she keeping him?”

The soldier looked down his nose at the blade, but kept his mouth closed tightly. 

“Tell me!” Arthur shouted. 

“Arthur, enough,” Lancelot said, unable to hold his tongue any longer. “Can’t you see he knows nothing?” 

For a while, Arthur’s resolve kept him as still as a statue, as if his will alone could conjure up information in the soldier. Or perhaps he was restraining himself from killing the man. He wanted to; Lancelot saw it in his eyes. It went on for so long that Lancelot wondered if he’d have to physically remove Arthur from the situation.

But then, Arthur’s expression became despondent, and he lowered his sword. “See that his wounds are cleaned,” he said to Gwaine and Percival. “He’ll be taken to Belmarsh and locked away with the others.”

Quickly, Arthur turned on his heels and started down the hill. Gwaine, Percival, and Leon got to work moving the prisoner. Nathara remained still, watching them. Thomas wrapped his arm around Aurora and moved her away, all the while offering her support and telling her it wasn’t her fault. The remorse on Aurora’s face was too much for Lancelot to bear. At once, he knew their campaign needed to end.

He rushed down the hill after Arthur, and met him in the shallow dip not far from where the medical tent had been set up.

“Arthur!” he hailed as he jounced towards him, causing Arthur to turn around.

“What is it, Lancelot?”

“If I may? You shouldn’t be so harsh on Aurora. She’s doing her best, and I believe she would have found something in the soldier’s mind had he known anything. She is very powerful.” 

“Powerful, yes, but untrained in the extent of her powers—or so I’m told,” Arthur answered curtly. 

“And you believe pressuring her will train her?” Lancelot challenged, but he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. Uther’s stern disappointment had always pushed Arthur to training. But that didn’t mean it would be so effective on Aurora. 

Arthur groaned, “I believe _Mer_ lin will train her! But, look around—he isn’t here!” 

Lancelot knew that was the root of Arthur’s mood, and his actions. He could not blame Arthur for wanting to get Merlin back. In fact, Lancelot would charge into York that very moment had he the choice. However, they had more than just themselves to think about. 

“I know,” he sad solemnly in attempt to settle Arthur’s temper. “But there is nothing we can do to correct that today. Take a look around yourself, Arthur. We’ve been away for longer than we were meant to be. The soldiers are tired. We lack supplies and are in need of reinforcements.” 

“We’ve been winning—,” Arthur started to protest.

“Yes, we have. But victory in a few skirmishes is not the only thing that boosts morale,” said Lancelot. “People need to know their king will look after their well-being—and his own.” 

Arthur put his good hand on his hip and stared down at the ground. Lancelot watched him for a long while, blinking the raindrops off his lashes and blowing them from his lips. It was just another reminder of why they needed to go home.

He thought, maybe, he was getting through to Arthur.

“We are not ready to march on York. You know that. The committee knows that, and they’re concerned you’re not holding to their will. Since Merlin’s been gone, you’ve been out campaigning more than you’ve been in Winchester. When was the last time you spent a night in the city? In your own bed?” 

Lancelot knew he didn’t sound like himself. The words belonged to another. Arthur must have heard it, too, because he said, “You’ve been talking to Guinevere.” 

“She worries for you,” Lancelot confirmed, thinning his lips.

“Then why doesn’t she tell me this herself?”

“She has! Many times. You will not hear her.” Gwen had tried every way, blatant and gentle, to approach the topic. According to what she’d told Lancelot, Arthur brushed her off each time. She’d been frustrated about it for weeks. 

Arthur could not look at him, and remained silent.

“Merlin has asked you to give him time.” 

“It’s been nearly a month without word from him!”

“You should trust him more.” 

Arthur scoffed, if only to keep down his emotion. “I do. I wish he showed me the same trust.”

Arthur did not understand that Merlin trusted no one more, but protecting Arthur was still the most important thing to him. But Arthur didn’t see it like that, and never would. He blamed himself for Merlin’s silence, thinking himself inadequate and unworthy of Merlin’s trust. He saw it as a reflection on himself. 

Lancelot wanted to tell him he was wrong, but knew it would be a wasted breath. Instead, he said, “I think it’s time we went back to Winchester.” 

There was a long pause, and then Arthur nodded in assent. He lifted his head and brought his eyes, red-rimmed but dry, to Lancelot. “Tell the soldiers to collect the Neos and burn their bodies. Scavenge whatever weapons they have. We’ll take our dead back to Winchester for proper burial.”

For the first time in days, the knot in Lancelot’s chest loosened with relief. He bowed his head, and then left Arthur alone.

 

///

 

They received word that Arthur was on his way back to the city the day before he reached Winchester. Gwen was grateful to have the soldiers home again, and relieved to see Lancelot and Elyan were still in once piece. Many hadn’t been so fortunate, and already funerals were being planned and families notified.

Arthur would have to make a speech about the departed, and news reporters throughout the country would be present, bombarding the mourners with their usual frenzy. It was nothing new, but Gwen still wasn’t used to the media circus that had filled the city to brim ever since Arthur announced the coronation would be postponed.

Reporters, cameramen, and photographers camped outside of the Great Hall, Guildhall, and beyond the fences of the Summer Palace. Once, a guard caught one man climbing over the wall on the southern grounds of the manor. The man was arrested, and the guard doubled, even though Arthur hadn’t been in Winchester at the time.

Everyone was looking for a story. The interviews and press conferences Arthur gave were not enough for them, and the committee members and their respective staffs were having a hard time controlling the facts. Details got out, and rumour was framed as reality. It wasn’t long after Arthur’s announcement before the reporters caught wind of Merlin’s absence. In almost no time, the nightly bulletin reported that the king consort had been abducted, titling the story _Kingly Kidnapping_ or _Captive Consort_.

It turned out a member of Darby’s staff had leaked the story. Assumption was, at first, that it had been a mistake—a simple case of loose lips that would bring him unfortunate repercussions. A little more digging revealed the man had ties to the Neos. The last Gwen heard, he was still under round the clock interrogation.

In all, certain measures were being taken to keep the media contained as best they could. Regular reports of the committee’s progress were given out in press releases, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy them—or so Gwen was beginning to understand. She was glad, at least, they weren’t interfering with Wallace’s investigation on who the traitor in their midst might be. As far as she could tell, the reporters still hadn’t picked up on that story, and they were trying to keep it that way. There was no reason to incite suspicion and panic amongst the public unduly.

The only ones who knew about the investigation were Gwen, Gaius, Arthur, the knights, and Wallace. Wallace conducted himself outside of the knowledge of the Metropolitan Police, but still managed to spend all his time searching for an answer. Gwen expected as much. Where Merlin’s safety was concerned, Wallace would turn over every stone. 

And it appeared his efforts were finally bearing fruit. 

As soon as word reached them that Arthur was home, Wallace summoned Gaius and Gwen to the manor. They met in Arthur’s study, where Wallace presented his evidence.

“I was taking a look around the grounds, right?” Wallace said. “And I know Merlin put up a bunch’a sigils around the house to protect it, but I saw one that didn’t look like the others.” He turned over the brick in his hand and gave it to Arthur.

“Found that outside the door to your kitchen.”

Arthur puzzled down at it, clearly unable to make heads or tails. He handed it to Gaius, and Gwen peered over his shoulder at the symbol scratched into the stone.

“I believe I’ve come across something like this in my studies of modern magical religions,” Gaius told them. “If I’m right, it’s meant to serve as an anti-warding symbol.”

“Anti-warding?” Gwen echoed. “So, it would cause Merlin’s enchantments to fail?”

Gaius merely shrugged. “Usually, yes. Put up against Merlin’s magic, it’s hard to say.”

“But say it did,” Arthur wondered, “what sort of magic is this?”

“This sigil could be used in any number of magicks—Wiccan, hoodoo, voodoo.”

Gwen’s eyes snapped up at the mention of hoodoo, and her mind began to turn. She glanced quickly at Arthur to see if he’d realised it, too, but he showed no such sign of a revelation. But no, he wouldn’t. He was far too trusting of his friends, so the thought of them betraying him would never cross his mind.

“That could be anyone,” Arthur lamented. He put his hand on his hips and let out a heavy sigh. “Good work, Wallace. See if you can find any more like this. Maybe there will be others, and they can help Gaius narrow down the proper magic.” 

Wallace nodded and took the brick back from Gaius. 

“Show me exactly where you found that,” Arthur said, and he followed Wallace towards the kitchen. Gaius made to follow, but Gwen quickly grabbed his arm to hold him back.

At first, Gaius was startled, but then he must have seen the look of concern playing on Gwen’s face. “Gwen? What it is?”

Momentarily, Gwen wondered if she was only imagining things, and she shouldn’t tell Gaius of her worries. But she decided against it. Her gut was telling her that her suspicion was correct. When she was certain Arthur was gone, she said, “Has Merlin ever spoken to you about Nathara?” 

Gaius’ brows knitted together, and he echoed the name in question. “No. Should he have?”

Gwen chewed on her lower lip in thought. “She practices hoodoo.”

“Yes, but so do many others who live in the city. Are you suggesting Nathara was responsible for the sigil?”

Gwen knew it was a very serious allegation, and one that Arthur would deny. It would mean Nathara was the traitor; it would mean she was working with Morgana.

“I’m not sure,” she answered carefully. “But I know Merlin didn’t trust her.”

Gaius seemed thrown, and perhaps he was wondering why Merlin wouldn’t come to him with such a concern. “He told you this?”

She shook her head softly. “It was in the way he regarded her.” She recalled him on the training pitch as Nathara and Arthur sparred. Merlin watched her ever move like he was expecting her to attack, and he was ready to intervene. There had been other instances of the like. “It was like he thought she was up to something.” 

Gaius thinned his lips together and thought it over. Apparently, he decided to trust Merlin’s instincts and Gwen’s intuition, because he said, “We cannot bring this to Arthur without proof.” 

Of that, Gwen was certain. Arthur would dismiss it with a laugh that so clearly concealed anger. He would not even entertain the thought of losing another friend, even if that person weren’t such a friend, after all.

She nodded, a plan forming in her mind.

“Then, I suggest we get some.”

 

///

 

Lancelot looked both ways up and down the row of barracks. Nothing but the nighttime breeze stirred. He steeled himself and turned back to the wooden door just inches from his nose. Lifting his fist he gave it three firm knocks and waited. 

At last, he heard movement from within, and then the sound of the door being unbolted. When it swung open, Nathara stood on the opposite side. She did not appear to be sleeping, despite the hour, and Lancelot found himself surreptitiously peering over her shoulder in attempt to glean what she’d been doing.

“Sir Lancelot?” she asked, curiosity in her tone.

“Apologies if I woke you, Commander,” he said for good measure, “but I come on urgent business from the king.”

She seemed intrigued instead of concerned, and took a step out of the room. “Arthur? What is it?”

“He’s planning an attack on the Neo Base in York. His aim is to rescue Merlin,” Lancelot told her.

Her eyes flashed urgently. “When is this?”

“In a week’s time,” said Lancelot. “He’s asked you to make for the Silver City at once and have Rosewood rally her army. If we’re to succeed, we will need Scotland’s help.” 

Nathara searched the floor, her eyes moving rapidly as if she was processing the information—or coming up with a plan of her own. Lancelot narrowed his eyes, trying to get a read on her. However, as soon as she brought her gaze back up to him, he corrected himself.

“I will leave at once,” she told him, and apparently she wasn’t exaggerating, because she stepped outside and let the door swing shut behind her.

Lancelot nodded. “I’ll come with you to the port and ensure a ship is readied—.” 

“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head. It may have been his imagination, but her eyes had gone wide for a brief time. She recovered with, “I will move faster alone. I’ll take a car to Scotland.”

Gwen had suspected Nathara would refuse a ship. Lancelot’s stomach turned with the implication of what this meant. 

“How will you get through the Neo Territory?” he asked, trying to sound worried. He’d never been good at lying, but Gwen had entrusted him with this task, and he wouldn’t let her down, especially if it meant unmasking a traitor.

How he hoped it wasn’t Nathara. She was a good soldier, and Arthur saw her as a friend. He would hate to lose her skill, but more so, he did not wish to see Arthur betrayed by another person he cared for. 

“I have my ways,” she ensured him.

“Are you certain? Arthur is counting on Rosewood receiving this message. If you’re caught—.”

“I won’t be caught. It’ll be better than taking a ship. We don’t want the Neos learning of our movements.”

She started down the corridor, and he quickly made after her heels. 

“I will speak to Arthur before I leave,” she said.

Lancelot’s heart skipped a beat. “You can’t!”

She spun around, her nose wrinkled in question. 

“He’s in a war council with the committee,” Lancelot quickly said the first excuse that came to mind. “It will take hours. If you’re to make it to the Silver City in time, you can’t delay.”

“Why wasn’t I called to this meeting?” 

Lancelot’s mind went abuzz, thinking himself caught. His limbs felt strangely numb. He said, hoping his voice didn’t falter as much as he thought it was, “This was a matter of British concern. Arthur had to convince the commit of the rescue mission. We didn’t know if he would succeed. But he did.” He swallowed. “And Scotland’s aid is needed.”

She paused momentarily, looking him up and down as if she could see through him. But she must have bought the lie, because she nodded and said, “Then, I will leave now. Tell him I’ll meet him with Rosewood’s army outside of York in a week’s time.”

Lancelot nodded and watched her disappear into the shadows. When her footsteps receded, he blew out his cheeks in a harried way. He’d felt like he’d been holding his breath throughout the entire conversation. 

He prayed this was just a misunderstanding, but he knew Gwen would not go through such lengths and subterfuge if she weren’t sure.

Still, he was glad his part in this was finished.

 

///

 

Gwen had been sitting atop the rocky hills for hours, the night sky stretched endlessly above her and the spring winds chilled on her cheeks. From her vantage point, the Neo Base was nestled below, yellow lights scattered within the high guarded fences. Beyond it, the barracks and town were quiet with slumber. The city lights of York were a haze on the horizon. 

Her eyes moved from building to building, searching for movement, half-expecting a tall, long-limbed man to burst into view and run towards them. It was difficult to know Merlin was in one of those buildings, and there was nothing she could do to help him—or at least comfort him with her presence. She could only pray he knew they hadn’t given up on him, and they were all trusting him in his decision to stay. 

Not for the first time, she hoped Merlin knew what he was doing.

“Still can’t believe you talked me into taking you. Arthur’ll kill me if he finds out.”

Out of the corners of her eyes, Gwen looked at the man next to her.

“Please, Wallace,” she told him. “I enlisted you for this task. I wasn’t going to have you risk yourself for it if I wasn’t willing to do the same.”

Wallace muttered something gruff and, for what felt like the hundredth time that night, held up a camera to his face. He peered out of the viewfinder and worked the lens into focus. He was looking at the guards at the gates. Gwen knew that he must have been looking for a way in, too, even though that wasn’t their aim for the night. Driving into the Neo Territory was dangerous enough. She had no intention of attempting to walk through the front doors. 

But she knew that Wallace, too, worried for Merlin, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

They continued to wait, and enough time passed that Gwen started to think she’d been wrong about Nathara. Or maybe Lancelot hadn’t been convincing enough. Perhaps Nathara saw right through him. That only caused Gwen’s stomach to churn with worry for Lancelot’s safety.

But then, headlights on the road at the bottom of the hill broke her thoughts. Wallace saw them, too. He said, “Get low.” 

Following his lead, Gwen laid on her stomach on the rock, and crawled as close as she could to the crest of the hill without drawing attention to herself. Wallace was beside her, camera held at the ready.

It may have been a patrol car returning, or it may have been what they’d been waiting for.

The car slowed at the gate to the base, and the Neo guards surrounding it had their weapons held up. The driver’s door opened, and a shadow got out. Gwen squinted, but she could not make out who it was.

However, through the camera, Wallace could. “It’s her.”

Gwen let out a breath of disappointment. “I didn’t want to be right.”

“Yeah. Sucks.” 

There was a series of clicks as Wallace took photos.

“Let me see,” Gwen said, holding her hand out expectantly. She trusted Wallace’s judgment, but she needed to see for herself before she condemned a woman.

Wallace handed her the camera, and she peered through it. On the other side, the gate of the base was opening and Nathara was being escorted through. There could be no denying it was her. 

Satisfied, Gwen returned the camera, and Wallace continued to gather evidence until the gate closed, and Nathara was out of sight.

The two of them sat upright.

“We need to get those to Arthur,” Gwen said, her eyes straying to the hidden dark car a few feet from them. They had to move quickly, before Nathara discovered their rouse.

“What do you think he’ll do to her?” Wallace morbidly wondered.

Gwen had no doubt what Nathara’s fate would be. Sparring him of the details, she said, “Nothing. Nathara is a Scottish Commander. He will leave her to Rosewood.” She was certain he could fill in the blanks for himself. 

Surely enough, Wallace grimaced.

The two of them picked themselves up from the hard ground and made for the car. They drove back to Winchester, the headlights off until they were miles from York.

 

///

 

Despite Morgana’s promise (or threat, as Merlin thought it) that they’d be seeing a lot of each other, Merlin hadn’t seen her at all for a month. He was kept in his cupboard, on round the clock guard, only let out twice a day in the morning and the evening. The guard he’d seen on his first day—Malcolm, Merlin learned his name was—was usually the person posted outside his door. Sometimes, though, rarely, Merlin had the pleasure of Mordred’s company. It took every iota of self-control he had not to kill Mordred, and he was certain the feeling was mutual. 

However, even though Malcolm and Mordred were the only faces Merlin saw for weeks, he did figure out that his prison was in Morgana’s personal residence. He heard her, her voice carrying along the pipes and filtering through the walls. He heard her getting dressed in the mornings, milling about at night, speaking with Mordred about the recent reports from the warfront, and he heard her with Malcolm. They shared a relationship he really would a have preferred to never know about, much less get a front row seat to. 

Once, a week previous, he heard Cenred’s voice in the house. He was telling Morgana that slaves in the surrounding towns had gone missing, presuming the followers of the Twice Crowned King were stealing them. Merlin was impressed at his ability to lie. He offered himself to guard Merlin for the day, and Merlin’s heart sped up in wonder if Arthur was trying to get a message to him. However, Morgana denied the offer by telling Cenred to find out who was taking the slaves; and Merlin never knew why Cenred had truly come.

All that aside, he knew Morgana no doubt wanted to keep him close, but he couldn’t understand what for. He’d done a lot of thinking during his captivity, but he couldn’t fathom what Morgana’s plan for him was—apart from being bait. He was glad the latter part never panned out for her, and that Arthur was staying away. Merlin really hadn’t expected him to do that, although he had hoped. 

He was pondering the situation when the door to his cupboard was ripped open. He winced at the onslaught of artificial light from the sconces in the hall. By the way they casted their yellow glow, he realised it must have been nighttime already.

Malcolm stood in the doorway, glaring at him with his usual amount of disgust. His gun, as ever, was in his hand.

“Dinner time?” Merlin asked, his voice coming out in a croak. He wasn’t very hungry. The food would only sit in his stomach like a brick, anyway, made more uncomfortable by the stretching of his arms and the awkward angle his body was forced into. He was, however, very thirsty.

“Queen Morgana wants you to dine with her tonight in the throne room,” Malcolm told him.

It threw Merlin for a loop. Why, all of a sudden, did Morgana want to talk to him? He considered that she was only trying to wear down his will over the month. She wanted him exhausted—which worked, because on the rare moments he could fall asleep, it was shallow and fitful; but, at least he wasn’t dreaming. She wanted him weak—which she’d also achieved, if the soreness in his shoulders and wobbling knees and rawness of his skin around the iron was any indication. She wanted to shake his confidence and let him wallow in self-pity, to understand what it felt like to be treated as less than human.

She may have not succeeded outright in this but, he had to admit, he did have his moments over the last weeks. 

Nonetheless, maybe she thought he’d stewed long enough. Maybe he was finally going to find out what he was doing there.

“Oh, and here’s me without a tuxedo,” he joked, his cheeks cracking in a grin that shouldn’t have ached as much as it did. He hated his own voice for sounding so delirious.

“You can always spend the rest of the night in here,” Malcolm snipped.

Merlin’s humour suddenly lost its spark. “Why does she want to talk to me?”

“That’s for the queen to tell you.” He reached up to Merlin’s cuffs and released the chain with an incantation. His eyes glowed gold as the restraints broke, and Merlin nearly missed it as he struggled to catch himself instead of falling to his knees. 

Once Merlin caught his breath, he stepped out of the cupboard and straightened out, his back protesting with pain that almost felt like pleasure. He looked at Malcolm. “I see Morgana’s been teaching you the Old Religion.” 

“It helps me serve her better.” 

Merlin pulled a repulsed face. “I think you serve her well enough already.” 

Even though that earned him a murderous glare, Merlin was allowed to clean himself off before being lead outside the house. He paused once he was out the door, breathing in the fresh air that was much too cold for late April. The fact that the earth had stagnated in healing without him was troubling, but he chose not to focus on what he couldn’t control for the moment. Even though the chain was no longer weighing him down, his cuffs were still around his wrists, and he did not forget the enchantment placed on them.

Instead, he let the air fill up his lungs and go to his head, almost getting high off of it. He hadn’t been outside since he’d arrived in York.

He wasn’t allowed to linger for very long, unfortunately. Malcolm shoved him into the back of the car waiting in the drive, and they made for the base. Although Morgana’s house wasn’t large, and looked like all the others Merlin he saw on the drive, it was set apart from the neighbourhoods and the barracks surrounding the base. He reasoned it must have been Nigel Cyrus’ old residence.

When they reached the back gates of the base, two guards waved them through, and the car continued along the training grounds, weaponries, and buildings until it at last came to a stop outside the tallest building Merlin had seen yet. 

Malcolm took him out of the car and led him through the building, to the grand doors of the throne room. 

The inside of the throne room must have once been a library, or perhaps a records room. It was enormous, the carpeted floor expansive and the walls tall and lined with bookshelves, reaching up to a high, domed ceiling. An arched, floor-to-ceiling window on one side overlooked the training grounds below. Before it, an elegant chair, no doubt the very chair that gave the room its name, sat. 

On the other end of the room, a long polished table had been set. Morgana was on one end. The only other place setting was across from her, on the opposite end of the table. She looked at him coolly as he was brought in. 

Malcolm closed the doors and positioned himself before them. Merlin hardly noticed. He was too busy regarding Morgana. She looked immaculate as ever, in a long black dress, satin but for the lace on her collar and sleeves, and red painting her lips. 

“Sit,” she demanded.

Merlin looked down at the place set for him at the opposite side of the table. Then, he glanced over his shoulder at Malcolm, still hovering in the doorway with his gun readily in hand. Merlin figured it was best to do as Morgana said unless he wanted to end up riddled with holes.

He pulled out the chair and fell heavily into it. He watched as Morgana leaned forward and rang the bell at the side of her placemat. Immediately, the doors at the opposite end of the room swung open and two slaves in plain grey garb walked through, both of them carrying covered plates.

When one of them placed the plate in front of Merlin, he was briefly able to see his reflection in the distorted silver dome before she removed it. Even though it was like looking into a fun-house mirror, he knew he didn’t look very easy on the eyes. His skin was ashen and waxy and his limp hair askew, the hair on his chin and cheeks was unruly, and he had blotchy bags under his dulled eyes from lack of sleep. 

Still, he forced a thin smile up at the woman who had placed the food in front of him and thanked her. At first, she looked frightened at being acknowledged, and then grateful, and then gave him the same pitying look he was giving her. He tried to push as much hope into his gaze as he could, just so she could believe she was going to be all right in the end.

“That will be all,” Morgana snipped. The slave woman jumped and hurried away. She slumped back to the kitchens. The other slave stayed briefly to slosh deeply red wine into Morgana and Merlin’s cups before leaving, too.

Merlin took the moment to look down at his food, sweet and steaming before him. His stomach grumbled in hunger as he eyed the bright vegetables and juicy red meat. He didn’t realise how empty he’d felt. He wanted to devour the food before him, but he was aware of Morgana’s eyes carving into him as well as the serrated knife next to his plate. 

He picked up the knife, wondering why Morgana would trust him with such a thing. She seemed to read his thoughts, because she mocked, “You can certainly try. We both know it won’t do much good.”

Merlin was tempted anyway, but then he remembered the machine gun in Malcolm’s hands. So, when his fist tightened around the handle, he used it to cut into the meat and forked a piece into his mouth. He tried _very_ hard not to melt around the taste. 

“It’s good to eat something not tainted by the unnatural ways of this century, isn’t it?” Morgana said conversationally, cutting into her own meat. “Nature has begun to flourish again. I suppose we have you to thank for that, Emrys.”

Merlin snorted bitterly. “Is that why you made me come here? To thank me?”

Morgana’s expression turned into a sneer. “I thought you should taste the fruits of your labour. And see mine.” She gestured towards the room as a whole, and to her throne. Hell, he was shocked she wasn’t wearing a crown just to taunt him. 

“You just had slaves bring in your dinner. Did you really think I’d be impressed?” 

Across the ornate table, she glared at him through her lashes. Then, she lifted her chin and leaned back in her chair. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel at least a small sense of righteousness? They’d have you in chains if it were the other way around. You, out of everyone, needn’t be reminded of how they persecuted our kind for thousands of years.” 

“It’s _our_ kind now, is it? I thought you didn’t count me.”

“You don’t count yourself,” she shot back. Merlin hated himself for it, but it made him pause. “You are the most powerful being to ever live—and yet, you use your magic for someone who will never see you as an equal.”

“He does—.”

“Don’t fool yourself, Emrys. Arthur only trusts you because he knows he can control you. You’re no better than one of his hunting dogs.”

Merlin gritted his teeth, feeling the anger bubble in the pit of his stomach. He wanted so badly to unleash it upon her, but such magic would only give her weapon a boost. He resolved to clenching his fists, hoping to stay his magic flowing from his heart to his hands and back again.

She must have known she was getting a rise out of him, because her eyes lit up in glee that she attempted to conceal. 

Sipping her wine, she said, “I don’t know why you show him such devotion, when you turned your back on so many of your own kind. Think of how much you could have done for the Druids, for Mordred . . . for me.”

The reminder of the past hollowed out his chest again. He never stopped regretting the decision not to tell her about his magic in Camelot. Sometimes, in those long years of his life that brought even longer nights, he lay awake imagining a life where he helped Morgana. So much could have been different, so much prevented.

But, no matter where his imagination led, he could not change the past. He did what he thought was right at the time. Maybe it wasn’t the best choice, but it was the one he’d made.

And Morgana, after all, had made her own choices, too. 

“And what would you have me do? Apologise?” he asked, shaking his head at her. “Would that bring back all the people you killed?” 

“I don’t want your apologies, Emrys. They mean nothing to me,” she sneered. When her expression evened out again, she said, almost beseechingly, “I want action. I want you to make up for your mistakes, to prove that you really are one of us.”

“I’m _not_ —.” He stopped short.

It was true: he always believed his magic was the most prominent part of him. How else did he identify himself, if not as a magician? He was a sorcerer. It’s all he’d ever been, all he ever would be. He _was_ one of them. And yet . . . 

Yet. He never truly identified as part of his kind. Morgana was right. He kept himself so apart from the others like him. He only used them when he needed answers or guidance, but he never tried to become one with them. It’s not that he thought himself better than them—just different.

Perhaps it was because of all those years of hiding in Camelot. Or perhaps it was because of something else.

Morgana certainly thought so. Pityingly, she told him, “Do you see what Arthur’s done to you? He’s made you lie to even yourself about who you are and where you belong.” 

He rolled his eyes, if only to stop the moisture budding inside of them. “And where’s that? With _you_?”

She narrowed her icy eyes at him, and he knew he’d guessed the answer.

A snort of laughter escaped his throat, and then another. Was that really why she’d brought him to York? “You’re kidding? If you think I’d ever join you, you’re insane.”

She didn’t seem offended, just curious. “And why not?”

“Because you’re not trying to help your own kind, either, Morgana,” he spat immediately. How dare she lecture him about turning his back on other magicians? All it did was make her a hypocrite. “Those people you killed? How many were magicians, again? How many Druids and Catha? Magic is just an excuse for you. It always has been. You just want the crown.” 

“I want the crown so that people like us can live freely,” she maintained. “Don’t you see that? All your talk of peace, but you must know it can never be achieved while there are still those without magic and those with? It is a war that will be raging forever. They fear us, and they fear their own annihilation. They will continue to war with us—to oppress us, to murder us—and how many will die then? We could put a stop to that. Together.” 

“With genocide?” 

Did she even hear what she was saying? 

“It’s the only way to peace.”

Merlin knitted his brows together and looked at her in disgust. He thought back to the life that could have been had he told her about his magic, and realised at once it was ever only bound to be a fantasy. He recalled the young ward he knew in Camelot, the one who just wanted to live without fear—to be equal, not superior. Not a trace of her was left. She was this—only this. Always this. 

“You’re wrong,” he told her plainly. “And I will never be a part of that. I believe in the world Arthur will build. It won’t be easy, and it won’t be quick, but it will one day heal the scar you left of this earth. I will _never_ join you, Morgana. Do you hear me?” 

Apparently, she didn’t, because she remained cool. “We’ll see in time.” 

 _Time_. Now, that was something Merlin was an expert in.

“Do you think this is the first I’ve known of chaos?” he asked. “That I’ve never seen war or genocide or oppression? I know what’s inside of you, Morgana, and it’s nothing new. From the beginning of time, it’s jumped from host to host until death has sucked them dry. I’ve seen hundreds of people like you. I’ve seen their empires fall, their bodies decay, and their weapons rust. I’ve seen their successors rise up and tumble down. And, every time, do you know what’s left at the end of it? Me.”

Her knuckles went white against the edge of the table and her lips were curled into hatred. It only spurred him on. 

“So, whatever you have planned for me, do it already. You’ll grow old delaying. But me?” He leaned in over the table so she caught every slow syllable he bit out: “I can wait.”

She hardened her jaw into a threat and held his eyes for a long while. He was determined not to blink until she did. 

At last, she did, and her face turned faux-pleasant.

“Your dinner will get cold,” she said, and reached again for her cup. “Eat. Warm yourself. You will have a bed tonight.”

Merlin didn’t trust that. He’d rather stay hanging in the cupboard.

“Why?” 

“Perhaps I’m feeling generous. Don’t make me change my mind.”

“If you think you can sway me with food and a bed—.”

“I said eat!” she shouted at once, her voice echoing off the high ceiling. It shocked him, but he didn’t let it show. 

Morgana reeled herself back in and gently placed her hands on the table. Without looking up at him, she said, “I will leave you to dine alone.” 

Immediately, her chair squealed and she stood up. Merlin’s eyes followed her as she made for the door, but she paused when she was level with him.

“I hope you will soon see that you and I want the same thing,” she whispered, “and that _we_ are the same.” 

He wanted to tell her they weren’t. They couldn’t be more different. The words never made it past his teeth. 

She continued to the door, which slammed when she left. He knew Malcolm was still poised behind him, so he didn’t look.

Instead, he turned his eyes on his meal.

 

///

 

Two days later, Nathara arrived in the Silver City. She made directly for Rosewood in the council hall. The doors slammed open as she arrived, and she rushed down the aisle to where Rosewood sat alone on the high table. 

“I bring news from Arthur,” Nathara said quickly, seeming out of breath, as if she’d run all the way from Winchester and didn’t stop until that moment.

Rosewood regarded her coolly. “Don’t worry, Nathara,” she said. “Arthur has already given me all the information I need.”

Nathara wavered, her expression turning to genuine confusion. Arthur saw the emotion play on her face from where he hid between the wall and the rows of desks. Her expressions ranged from dread to bewilderment when Rosewood picked up the photos from the desk in front of her and handed them down to Nathara.

“What is this?” Nathara demanded after shifting through them. It was a very good show, but her eyes were wide and revealed hints of fear. It was enough to show her guilt.

A cold fist tightened around Arthur’s heart. Ever since Gwen showed him the pictures, he’d tried to deny it, no matter how clear they were. But this . . . He could not deny this. Nathara was in league with Morgana. She probably even had a hand in Merlin’s kidnapping. 

She’d betrayed him. 

He thought he should have been numb to this particular brand of agony by now, but it wasn’t so. Every betrayal felt like an open wound in his chest, each time stretching wider and tearing deeper. He even had a scar to go with it. 

“You know very well what it is,” Rosewood said, her tone probably not as hard as she would have liked. Nathara was her prized Commander. She might have even been General after Rosewood. Now, that would never be. 

Steeling himself, Arthur stepped out of his hiding place, and Nathara spotted him immediately.

“Arthur?”

“He arrived by ship earlier today,” Rosewood explained. She pointed her chin at Nathara. “He brought those. Guards.” 

The doors opened again, and three guards rushed in. One restrained a struggling Nathara into handcuffs, and the others stripped her of her weapons. Arthur’s gaze fell to the floor, where the photographs had fallen and were strewn at his feet. He forced himself to look up as Nathara gritted her teeth in anger.

Rosewood stood and said, as if addressing a full room, “Commander Nathara of the Dumfried Clan, you are accused of providing Queen Morgana with information of the British committee. You are therefore a traitor to the provinces and to the Scottish Nations. Do you admit your guilt?”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, and half of him hoped she’d deny it.

However, she stopped struggling and stood at her full height, much taller than any of her guards. “I do,” she said defiantly. “You don’t deserve to lead Scotland. You do nothing but hide behind your walls and let English kings fight for you. Your alliance with him will bring the Nations to ruin.” 

Arthur tried to keep his expression blank, to void himself of all emotion.

“And _you_ ,” Nathara spat at him, and his resolve failed. There was such hatred in her eyes—hatred for him. He thought they’d been friends. “You are no king. Queen Morgana will have your crown. She will sit on Winchester’s throne, and the world will be a better place for it. Magic will rise from your corpse.”

He swallowed hard, and blinked to cease the burning in his eyes.

Rosewood was better at staying her emotions. “Nathara, you are sentenced to immediate death by hanging. Guards, take her from me.”

The guards began to pull, and Nathara didn’t resist.

“Wait!” Arthur shouted, suddenly overcome by urgency. The guards halted. “What business did Morgana have in the Summer Palace? What were you helping her with?” These were preludes to the question he really wanted to ask: “What is her plan for Merlin?” 

“There’s no point in you knowing. Her plan is nearly complete and you can’t stop it,” Nathara sneered. “She’s been giving him dreams. He thought it was the Crystals’ power, but it was hers, too.”

Arthur felt a chill go down his spine. Merlin had been right. Morgana had gotten inside his head, but Arthur still didn’t know why.

“To turn him against me?” he guessed, recalling the dream Merlin had told him about. The future in which Morgana was victorious.

“To turn him towards her.” 

Whatever denials Arthur could speak got lodged in his throat.

The guards began pushing Nathara from the room again. She walked with her eyes cast over her shoulder at Arthur. She shouted, “I die happily for Queen Morgana. She will have her victory. You will die—you will _both_ die! Her weapon will burn through your hearts. I wish I could see that day! And the look in your eyes when you’ve realised Emrys has betrayed you!” 

At the sound of Merlin’s name, Arthur went cold. He forgot every emotion but fear. He charged forward. But Rosewood called his name and it stopped him. 

Nathara kept on: “Their magic together will take on the world! It will give the queen her triumph! And it will be Emrys’ doing, Arthur! It’s their destiny! Emrys’ power is not yours! It belongs to her—!” 

The door slammed shut, and her shouts turned into muffled cries. 

Arthur realised his eyes had turned into saucers, and he was frozen on the spot. His mouth hung open, and his brows were pinched in horror at her words.

He did not believe them. He knew, above all else, Merlin would never betray him—like Nathara had, like Morgana and Uther and Mordred and Agravaine. Merlin would remain true.

But Nathara seemed to believe it to her very core, and it shook Arthur to his. He wondered if Morgana truly believed it, too, and how far she’d go to make it a reality.


	3. Chapter 3

Another week passed where Merlin hadn’t seen anyone but his guards, who twice a day like clockwork gave him food and took him across the hall to the bathroom. It was a schedule he was becoming accustomed to, but not one he found comfort in.

As the days dragged on, he longed to stare at something other that the four walls of the bedroom surrounding him. They were too pale, like the rooms of a hospital, and his mind conjured images and faces better left to the depth of his memory to project onto the blankness. He wanted fresh air, trees, sunlight on his skin and room to stretch his legs. He wanted Arthur.

Sometimes, he would close his eyes and focus on the magic flowing through the earth below. It was wild and untamed without him to conduct it, but there were moments when, amidst the chaos, it brought to him a very familiar feeling, as if Arthur were in the room with him. It was fleeting and weak, but it was enough to remind Merlin why he was there. So long as Arthur stayed away—stayed _safe_ —Merlin would suffer danger and boredom, exhaustion and chains. 

It could have been worse, after all.

Just as he had that thought, he heard the bolts and latches on the door come undone. He opened his eyes and straightened his spine against the headboard he was leaning on, his legs spread out in front of him on the mattress and his cuffed wrists on his lap. He turned his eyes in the direction of the door and waited for it to open. 

The schedule was off. This was not a visit from a guard.

Suddenly, he was very eager to remain alone in his cell of a bedroom. He didn’t want to see anyone.

The sentiment doubled when the door opened and Morgana swept into the room. Her black hair and matching dress were stark against the white walls. The door closed behind her, and she remained still nearby it from a long time. They regarded one another silently, and Merlin could not fathom what was going through her mind. 

Why was she there? To try to convince him to join her again? It was a wasted trip.

His will won out, and she was the one to break the silence. “I trust you’ve been comfortable here these last days.”

Merlin snorted and rolled his eyes away. “What do you want, Morgana?” he asked the wall opposite him. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her bristle. “I come to know if you’ve thought about our conversation.”

If he were honest with himself, the answer was yes. He hadn’t much else to occupy his thoughts as of late and, try and he might to drive the discussion from his mind, he could not. It seeped into his dreams at night and left him wondering what could be in the lapsed moments between sleep and consciousness.

He had thought of it, and the answer was still no. His power was given to him to ensure Arthur’s success. Even if it weren’t, he’d still use it to serve Arthur. Morgana would not break his loyalty, not through isolation and imprisonment. He wasn’t that easy.

“There’s nothing to think about,” he answered shortly, sparing her the unimportant details. “You’re wasting your time. I’ll never betray Arthur.”

Her lips, as red as a gaping wound, twisted into a frown. Had she really been expecting another answer?

“I should not have hoped for better of you after all this time,” she told him, lifting her chin regally to look down her nose at him. “Surely you must know, after all your long years, that you’re a fool for serving him. Arthur should bow to you. You were his path to glory, and yet you allow him all the fame and recognition. You should be the king, and yet you let his influence tower above you.” 

And if she thought glory was what drove Merlin’s ambitions, she was an even greater fool than him.

“He casts a long shadow,” he said dryly.

“You are his shadow.”

Something in Merlin’s chest caved, crushing his lungs and making air a scarce thing. He remembered, in Camelot, Uther’s ward would often voice his thoughts, fears, and feelings as her own. She could always see through him, even when she didn’t know it. It appeared she still had that gift, only now she was aware of it. She still knew his mind, whether he liked it or not. 

He bit at the inside of his mouth, trying to think of something to say to throw her off his scent. 

Morgana only pressed in closer. She sat on the very edge of the bed, and Merlin would have curled away if he hadn’t so much impulse control—if he wasn’t so determined to prove he wasn’t scared of her. However, she didn’t appear very comfortable, either. Her posture was too straight, as if the mattress were made of cold stone.

“You could be more. You needn’t live in fear, as he made you for all those years. You can cast your own shadow. You were born for it, after all. It is your destiny.”

He could feel the magic within him react to that. It simmered in his belly and warmed its skin as it stretched out its tendrils throughout his limbs, reaching to meet hers. All his life, the Old Religion dared him to use it—to grow in it, to find the full extent of its power.

“Sorcerer. Dragon lord. Why were you given such power if you were only ever meant to cage it?” 

She leaned in closer, enticing in all the promises she could bestow. 

Merlin realised he hadn’t been this close to her, and alone with her, in thousands of years. She was only an arm’s length away, and he recalled all the times he longed to reach out and caress her as a boy, and all the times he knew he should throttle her if given the chance as a young man. 

Now, however, he found himself frozen.

Since her resurrection, he’d only ever seen her far away. At a distance, as it always had been when she was in some dark tower in the north with miles between them, it was easy to call her the enemy. It was easy to listen to the reports of all the people she’s slain and all the havoc she’d wreaked with abhorrence, never having to hear her reasoning or emotion behind the actions. The sight of her face brought no memory of the girl he once knew if he was too far to make out the familiar features. They could blur and warp into something sinister in his imagination. He could see her as threat, and it was better if she stayed away. 

Far away, Merlin could hate her.

But seeing her up close, actually being in her presence, was another beast entirely. Merlin had forgotten what it had been like to be close to her. He’d worked hard on forgetting. He wasn’t prepared for it now, and found it difficult to cope.

It was easy to remember her deeds—heinous and ugly. It was harder to think of the woman who’d executed those evils.

She was as harshly beautiful as a cliff face during a thunderstorm, and she elicited the same effect. Anyone who had ever stood over the sea knew the sensation: how small it made them feel. They knew what it meant to toe at the edge, and wonder just how thrilling the fall might be if they jumped.

She leaned back, and the urge passed. He remembered why it was best to keep his distance. He belonged eternally at the side of a Pendragon, but it was not hers. 

“You see it as a waste because I don’t use it for my own gain?” he challenged. 

She met it with a raised brow. “Don’t you?” 

“I use it for the vision Arthur has of what Britain can be—a land of peace. Would you rather me torch the earth with dragon fire?” 

She mocked, “It may be a good way to start over.”

Merlin said nothing. There was no convincing someone so hell bent on war that peace was the better option.

Morgana tilted her head to the side and regarded him for a long time like he was the lowest form of specimen she’d ever seen. Her eyes dragged him up and down in repugnance.

“What happened to her?” she asked evenly.

Merlin sneered, pretending he had no idea who she was talking about. It wouldn’t buy him much time, but it would buy him a little. “Who?”

“You know who,” she spat. “Aithusa. Where is she?” 

Merlin looked away, holding his tongue. He had never told anyone what had happened to Aithusa. It was his greatest shame, and saying it aloud would make it real. It was a reoccurring nightmare that had haunted Merlin for thousands of years; once the memory got started, it got stuck in his head like a song for days. He couldn’t shake it loose.

The worst part was, he hadn’t actually seen what happened to Aithusa. The memory was just his imagination, and his imagination had centuries to run wild. 

“You don’t know?” Morgana challenged, misreading his silence.

“She’s dead,” Merlin answered immediately. He didn’t know he’d had the words ready. They poured out of him like an open wound.

Morgana looked startled, and then furious. She skipped right over sorrow. “You killed her?” she accused. 

“No!” He’d expected Morgana to think the worst of him, but that was just too much. Did she really expect him to kill the last dragon—for what? Because she had fought with Morgana at Camlann? Merlin cared for Aithusa too much not to forgive her for that. 

Or, at least, he did in retrospect. 

“Then what happened to her?” Morgana demanded, slamming her fist on the bed. There was some grief about her, lending to her anger, giving it more power. It must have been so easy for her to blame him—not that she was wrong in doing so.

Merlin fell silent. 

“Answer me!” 

There was no way around it. And maybe she even deserved to know. Over the years, Merlin had debated whether he blamed Morgana for Aithusa’s life. If Morgana hadn’t have been so selfish, she would have released the dragon; she wouldn’t have allowed Aithusa to be a captive with her. Aithusa would have grown to be strong and powerful; she would have been able to protect herself, to survive, like Kilgharrah had.

But Morgana also gave Aithusa companionship. She made sure Aithusa wasn’t alone in the world, that she was with her kin. Aithusa wasn’t hunted with Morgana. While the dragon couldn’t protect herself, Morgana did. 

Merlin certainly never did any of those things.

Morgana, more than anyone, had the right to know.

He blanked his expression and met her gaze head on. She feared what he was going to say. He could see it on every line on her face. Her imagination, too, was working on overtime.

“It was centuries after you died. The Saxons weren’t the last to invade Britain. The Normans came next,” he explained, deciding to give her the brief version. His voice was toneless, a history lesson. “Magic had long since faded from the world, and Aithusa was already weak. There had been sightings of her. Rumours spread in the Norman camps and settlements. They said, a person could gain a dragon’s power if they—.”

Morgana was staring at him wildly.

Merlin swallowed down his emotion. It quaked through his chest.

“If they consumed its flesh,” he got out when he found his voice.

Morgana’s gaze fell to her lap. She searched it in horror, her eyes flashed back and forth, as though the scene was carved onto her skin. Her nose crumpled and her jaw clamped.

He realised his lashes were lined with droplets. He blinked them away and sniffed in sharply.

“A group of soldiers found her,” Merlin told her. “She didn’t have enough magic left to defend herself. They killed her. They ate her. They used her hide for armour and her bones for weapons.” 

Morgana stayed silent for a long time. Merlin’s heart was dead in his chest. Cautiously, his magic beat against the barrier of his skin. It told him her fury was growing, and that he needed to defend himself. He didn’t make a move to do so. 

If Morgana wanted to hurt him, she’d be in the right—if only just this once.

However, when she finally spoke, her voice was hollowed by sorrow. “And you did nothing?” She sounded so small, so vulnerable. He hadn’t seen her this way since her last days in Camelot, when she begged for his help with her magic—and he did nothing.

“I searched for her,” he said, but he knew it wasn’t an excuse. “I was too late. By the time I found the Norman army, she was already dead.”

She glared at him through her lashes, her expression speaking of hurricanes and tornados and danger danger danger.

“You killed her.”

“No,” Merlin denied furiously, shaking his head. He denied it because he’d thought it, too, many times. More times than he could count.

“You didn’t care for her! That’s as good as killing her!”

“I loved her!” 

“No!” Morgana jumped to her feet suddenly, her heels making a thundering sound when they hit the floor. His instincts gave him a start, but it was a weak attempt to get away. In fact, it wasn’t an attempt at all. He remained still, his nerves too frayed.

“ _I_ loved her!” Morgana screamed. “ _You_ abandoned her! You don’t deserve the magic you’ve been given! It should be mine! All you’ve ever done was hide away! You’re nothing but a coward!” 

She was right, partly. He knew she was right. He should not have been given such responsibilities. Destiny had chosen wrong. But they were _his_ , and it was time he took them seriously. He’d been trying so hard to do just that this time around. 

Morgana stormed from the room, apparently too disgusted to face him any longer. However, in the threshold, she paused, her fingers wrapped around the doorknob and her chest heaving. 

Merlin did not look at her, but he felt the moment she half-looked over her shoulder at him.

“When you found the Norman settlement,” she asked, “what did you do to them?” 

Merlin’s jaw tightened. He looked forward, eyes on the blank wall. It was a canvas for his memory. On it, he painted fires and floods and blood and screams for mercy that was never given.

“I killed them all.”

It was a severe understatement. He hadn’t just killed the soldiers. He had killed them _all_.

It wasn’t something he thought about often. On that day, he wasn’t himself. He was something else, something _other_. He hadn’t used magic like that in ages. He’d tried to spare it. But, on that day, he summoned it all. His hands had belonged to someone else, until they forgot what it meant to belong to Merlin. That day, more than any other day, he’d been Emrys. 

He hadn’t even written about it in his journals. He just wanted to forget. He never could. He tried to trick himself into believing he wasn’t capable of such a thing, that he’d made it up in a fevered dream desperate for revenge. He never could.

He had killed them all.

From the tone in her voice when Morgana spoke next, Merlin acknowledged one simple thing: she knew he’d enjoyed the revenge. “Did they suffer?”

The question conjured more emotion in him, surpassing the shame and regret and recalling all he’d felt in the moment. Hatred. And the certainty that the tribe’s people had deserved death. 

His voice was as black as hers. 

“Yes.”

It was a severe understatement.

If only briefly, he understood Morgana as well as she understood him.

“Good.”

 

///

 

Arthur’s mind was anywhere but on the drafting meeting for the charter. He knew the matter was of great importance, as they were deciding the structure of their nation’s government; but, as he sat at the Round Table—Gwen and Gaius next to him, the committee members and their advisors around the table’s circumference, and someone off to the side recording everything that was said through the _click click ding_ of a typewriter—he could only focus on the empty chair to the right of him.

And, to a lesser extent, the vacant seat across from him. Chancellor Brown hadn’t stepped foot in Winchester in a month and half. He made excuse after excuse for not attending the meetings, but Exeter was slowly beginning to withdraw from the provinces. There were reports of checkpoints being reopened along the Republic’s borders, and trade was becoming less and less. 

It had all started around the same time Merlin had been captured, Arthur couldn’t help but notice, but he didn’t know what it meant. 

“Well, I think it’s worth a discussion,” Simmons was saying in a tone that suggested she was willing to fight to get her way. The sheer force of it brought Arthur back to reality. “We should decide if Arthur’s to be the head of the Church of England.” 

Arthur furrowed his brow together, perplexed. He recalled from some documentary he’d watched about the English monarchy over the years that the king or queen was also head of the church, but he never thought that responsibility would be passed on to him. He didn’t know much about religion, if he were being honest. Of course, he knew of Christianity’s spread in the days of Rome, but the faith’s followers in the Britons had been few and far between when he was king. 

Every so often, a priest or monk would wander into Camelot and attempt to spread the good word. Arthur had even listened to what some of them had to say, but he wasn’t sure if he actually believed it. Uther certainly never embraced Christianity. To him, a man who had died and was said to return again was too close to magic.

With a touch of irony, Arthur wondered what Uther would say if he saw his son now.

“What Church of England?” the Commissioner countered. “Such an institution hasn’t had any clout since the War. It seems a rather outdated tradition.”

“There are still believers.”

Arthur had to smirk at Simmons’ tenacity. She _would_ believe in magic.

“But we shouldn’t have the church interfering with how we run our government,” Darby chimed in. 

“The Tories would have loved that sentiment,” Owen groaned.

“Perhaps we should put it to a public referendum,” Simmons suggested it. 

Arthur wanted to groan, too. The provinces had been conducting referendum after referendum, it seemed. He knew he was a public servant, but he wondered what the point of elected leaders was if they didn’t make quick decisions without the public’s vote. Each of the provinces, with the exception of Exeter, which had yet to put it to ballot, had voted to join the union. Arthur really wished they would get on with creating the country in which they’d all voted to stand behind. 

Darby continued, “Even if we do, there’s no saying if the church will even want a part of the government, anyway. You know they’ll never accept Arthur’s—well, you know.”

Arthur gaped, unsure if he should be offended. “My _what_?” 

“Well, your marriage. The Anglican Church has never accepted same-sex marriage in the past. It’ll make no difference that you’re king. In fact, that may make them even angrier.” 

Arthur didn’t see how his marriage was the church’s business. As if the Old Religion weren’t enough, now Christianity was against his union with Merlin? He opened his mouth to get angry, but his temper was cut short by a quick procession of thumping on the roof. The sound echoed through the hall, somewhere between the pattering of a rainstorm and gunshots. 

Everyone looked to the ceiling, but it was Arthur who sprang up from his chair and rushed to the window. Outside, thick chunks of ice were falling from the pewter sky above. They bounced on the stones in the courtyard before settling in a thin sheet.

“Hail?”

Arthur turned to find Gwen at his side, her forehead pinched in concern as she watched the storm. Behind them, there was a scraping of chairs as everyone stood up to see the weather for themselves. Even Darby’s service dog trotted towards the window and rested his snout on the flint sill.

Arthur blinked, not quite believing his eyes. It had been a frigid morning, but he couldn’t say that was unusual for spring, especially in this day and age. As of late, the weather shifted day by day. On Monday it was as warm as summer while on Tuesday one needed a winter coat to stand outside for more than a minute.

But a hailstorm seemed far too out of sorts for early May.

As if the chunks of ice were gathering in his gut like they were on the ground, a sense of cold dread washed over Arthur. Perhaps the random temperature fluctuations should have troubled him more than they had been, and he shouldn’t have merely seen them as a mild inconvenience.

He looked at Gaius to find his lips were pressed in a thin white line. It was clear Gaius had been silently monitoring the weather, and whatever theories he had were now confirmed.

“Gaius?” Arthur asked, but left the question hanging in the air. There was no need to verbalize it, as Gaius knew what he was asking.

“I believe I know what’s going on, sire. I fear it’s a matter that should be discussed sooner rather than later.”

“Then, let’s discuss it now.” Arthur gestured back to the Round Table, and everyone reclaimed their seats.

When they were all settled back around the Table, Gaius began, “I believe something may be preventing Merlin from redistributing the power the Old Religion is bleeding into our world from Avalon. That could explain the erratic weather. We always knew Merlin’s magic was a temporary fix, but it had been working. Without his magic, and with the Old Religion continuing to grow, it can only get worse from here. We may not be far from a natural disaster, sire.” 

Darby asked, “Why would Merlin just stop? There must be another explanation.”

“You said something was preventing him,” Gwen piped in, looking to Gaius. “I think you may be right. Merlin would never stop on purpose.”

Arthur recalled something that Merlin had said in his dream. The implications hadn’t fully dawned on Arthur before, but they were beginning to. “When Merlin contacted me, he told me Morgana was trying to take his magic for her weapon. He was adamant about not giving her any more than necessary. That’s what’s stopping him.” 

Gwen nodded, accepting it. “Then, we must find another way to prevent any catastrophe while Merlin is gone. Perhaps the Druids can help.”

Arthur ground his teeth. The Druids shouldn’t have to be tasked with such a thing. Merlin should have been there to do it.

“I very much doubt that,” Gaius said. “Their magic has no sway over the Old Religion, like Merlin’s does. They merely borrow their power, whereas Merlin is as much a part of the Old Religion as it is of him.” 

And yet, they were letting him rot away in Morgana’s prison. Arthur balled his fist under the table and tried to cork his anger.

Simmons suggested, “You said you were searching for a way to close Avalon without sacrificing anyone. Have you found anything that could help?”

“As of now, I’m afraid not.” 

Arthur erupted, despite his efforts to keep himself contained. “Then, keep looking! If you’re all so insistent on keeping Merlin jailed, the least you can do is provide answers—not more problems.” 

He huffed, and clocked the look of contained guilt in Gaius’ eyes. Remorse spread through his chest, but it didn’t change anything. 

“Figure it out,” he ordered, “while we all remain here like cowards instead of taking the fight to York.” 

“Not cowards, Arthur,” Simmons corrected. “Tactful.” 

Arthur wanted to take their tact and shove it up their collective arse. However, they must have been rubbing off on him, because he bit his tongue and instead said, “All right. Gaius, after we’re through here, go to the Druid Chiefs and see if there’s anything that can do. But I don’t want word of this getting out to the people, or god forbid the news reporters. Ensure you have the Druids’ confidence. Then, return to your research.” 

Gaius bowed his head, and Arthur turned to the others. He looked at the piles of paper and draft notes on the table and grimaced inwardly. They still had a lot to do. 

“I’m sure you all want to get back to your provinces and go over the new revisions. Let’s wrap up any final points as we wait for the weather to pass and regroup next week.” 

With the matter decided, everyone settled in again. For the next hour, Arthur kept half his attention on the pitter-patter on the roof, listening as it slowly dwindled in its intensity before becoming nothing.

 

///

 

The days were growing longer, despite the bone-deep chill still in the air. Red hues were painted on the white walls of the corridor in Morgana’s residence. Mordred stood outside the locked door to Merlin’s prison. A plate of food was in his hands—a measly piece of meat and some cheese. It was better than what Merlin deserved, if Mordred was telling the truth.

But he stayed his tongue, as he’d been doing for weeks. He clamped his jaw and did not let his thoughts pass his lips, but that did not keep him from thinking them. He was still wary of Merlin’s presence so close to Morgana. He was a danger, and would be the queen’s downfall if Mordred didn’t find a way to put an end to it. Fear of what might happen should he fail kept him awake at night. 

As did curiosity. 

There was something he’d been pondering for a long while, but didn’t know if he wanted the answer. Treacherous and unforeseen dangerous may lay on the other side. So, he kept it to himself. That would end now. He would get his answer while he still had the nerve to ask for it. 

It was better to know. It was better to face the implications head-on. 

He unlocked the door and pressed inside to find Merlin sitting on the floor at the bottom of the bed, his head bent back to rest on the mattress. The same dying sunlight filtered through the window of the room, bathing his cheeks in an amber glow. As he stared up at the ceiling, his long throat was exposed, and Mordred wished he could slice it.

But no. Morgana would not have it. He had not convinced her yet. Even if he had, the death would not stick until his sword was found. 

Besides, Merlin could not give him the answers he sought while choking on his own blood. 

Merlin lifted his head and glared at Mordred. “Chef’s special again?” 

“Be grateful you’re getting anything at all,” Mordred snipped in return. He placed the plate on the nightstand next to the bed and stepped back to keep his distance. Merlin picked himself off the floor and made for the plate. He picked it up and prodded at the meat with his fingers (as Mordred wouldn’t trust him with pointed objects), but did not bring any to his lips.

Mordred remained still, watching him. His limbs shook somewhat as anxiety stole over him. He wanted to ask his question, to get it over with, but the words got trapped in his throat. How could Merlin still have this effect on him, even as a prisoner holding no power? How could the sight of him make Mordred feel so small, so unclean, so terrified?

Mordred wasn’t a child anymore. He would tame his emotions. He would get his answer. 

“What?” Merlin asked disinterestedly, obviously wondering why Mordred was still in the room.

“That day on the bridge,” Mordred blurted out, the words dislodging themselves from his Adam’s apple, “that Druid woman had me. She could have killed me—and you stopped her. Why?”

Merlin puckered out his lips and shrugged, still more interested in playing with his food than looking at Mordred. “I didn’t. I was trying to help her.”

Mordred had replayed that moment many times in his head and, “That’s not how I remember it.”

“Then, you remember wrong,” Merlin answered in a faux-pleasant voice, a smile on his lips and his eyes bright when he finally looked up. But Mordred saw the sharp malice behind the façade. “I assure you, I’d like nothing more than to see you dead.”

Of the last part, Mordred was certain; but he also knew Merlin was lying. He was hiding something, and Mordred knew it was a secret that affected him somehow. What it was, he could not guess, and he didn’t know what Merlin had to gain from keeping it from him. It could only mean it was something horrible, with consequences that Mordred would not like at all.

He should have known better than to think Merlin would divulge it so readily. Perhaps it was just a petty attempt to hold some power over him; or perhaps there was another reason, something more dire as Mordred feared.

Mordred opened his mouth to demand an answer when a loud knock sounded on the front door of the residence. He narrowed his eyes at Merlin, threatening, “You will tell me sooner or later.”

“I’m an open book.” He popped a piece of cheese into his mouth.

Mordred stalked out of the room and made sure every lock was sealed behind him. The knocking at the door continued, and he made for it. Malcolm stood on the other side, and the last rays of light had fled from the earth, leaving only grey shadow.

“Sorry for the late hour, but I thought you’d want to see this,” Malcolm said, pushing into the house. He carried in his fist a long object wrapped in black fabric. He dropped his voice to ask, “Is the queen here?”

“She’s on the base,” Mordred answered quickly, too busy wondering about Malcolm’s urgency and the object he carried. One look at the size and length of it made his heart rate speed up in anticipation. He didn’t dare hope.

“What is this?”

“I think it’s what we’ve been searching for,” Malcolm told him. He held up the object and unwrapped the fabric to reveal the sword beneath. The pacing of Mordred’s pulse tripped, and his breath was stolen from him.

“It matches your description,” Malcolm explained. “One of my men found it in an abandoned museum in Exeter.”

Mordred wrapped his fist around the hilt, and instantly felt the power of the sword flow through his wrist. He held it straight up and inspected the blade, as light and balanced as he remembered. It needed a good shining, but time hadn’t dulled it. It was perfect, save for the chip in the metal that Mordred felt only pride for. After all, the metal had served its purpose. It had killed the king.

Malcolm seemed to be holding his breath. “So? Is that it?”

A grin cracked Mordred’s face. “Yes. This is my sword.”

“The queen will be happy to hear it,” Malcolm said, pleased with his work. However, the relief Mordred felt was suddenly washed away. It wasn’t enough to have the sword. He had to convince Morgana to let him use it.

How could she refuse when the answer to Merlin and Arthur’s demise was in hand? She had created the sword for Mordred. She would want him to use it.

“Stay here and keep guard over Emrys. I must tell the queen at once.”

Malcolm stood to attention. “Yes, sir.”

Mordred took the car that had brought Malcolm and told the driver to make for the base. Once there, he went straight for the throne room, bypassing the guards posted at the door, both of who gave his stiff salutes. Inside, Morgana was at the table leafing through a pile of reports. She looked up, somewhat startled, when the doors slammed open.

“My Queen Morgana, I have urgent business to discuss with you,” he said, and the doors banged behind him.

Morgana smiled warmly at him and let the paper in her hand fall onto the stack. Giving him her attention, she beckoned, a hint of laughter in her tone, “Of course, Mordred. There’s no need to look so serious. Come and sit. Tell me what troubles you.”

He paced for the table but didn’t sit down. Instead, he placed the rewrapped sword before her. She stared at it curiously, but didn’t reach for it. “What is this?”

“I had Malcolm and his men search for it,” he told her. “It took some time, but they found it. I believe it is the answer to our victory in this war.”

Intrigued, she pushed aside the fabric and peered down at the blade. Colour rose to her cheeks, and her chair screeched as she stood up. Her hands pressed into the table’s polished wood, and her eyes never left her warped reflection in the steel.

“It can’t be.”

Mordred grinned, her reaction spurring his bravado. “It is. Morgana—,” he took her hand and knelt at her side beseechingly. “You once made me this sword with the sole purpose of defeating Arthur. I can do that again, if you allow me to use it—but his downfall will not begin in his death. Not this time. It will begin with Emrys’.”

The wonder in Morgana’s gaze turned to perplexity, and then anger. She yanked her hand from him, and he felt as if she’d taken his heart with it.

“I grow tired of you undermining my plans for him, Mordred,” she seethed.

He closed his eyes to collect himself. “I have never undermined—.”

“You do so with your lack of faith! Have I ever given you cause to doubt me?”

“Of course not, Morgana!” He staggered to his feet. “You know I only wish to protect you—and to see you on the throne. Emrys has denied all your efforts to join us. He rejects you because he is too loyal to Arthur. I prayed you’d see that by now. The only way to victory is through his death. It will cripple Arthur and leave Britain vulnerable. It will make Arthur lose _his_ hope!”

He grabbed the sword off the table, hearing the metal sing.

“Let me use this. I beg of you. Take Emrys’ head to Winchester for all to see. Nothing will stand in your way after that.”

Morgana’s eyes lit upon him as if she’d had an epiphany. Perhaps at last she was seeing sense.

“Don’t fret, Mordred, Emrys’ head will go to Winchester, but the rest of him will go, too,” she said. Mordred blanched, not understanding her meaning. She didn’t explain herself, but continued, “You were right to search for your sword, and you’re right that Emrys’ love for Arthur will prevent him from joining us. So, we must prove to him how wrong he is. I believe your sword can aid us in that.”

Mordred stammered, unsure what to say. He wanted to kill Merlin with the sword, not prove a point with it. How had this situation gone so backwards? Merlin was their enemy; how could Morgana not see that? Even dead, Morgause’s influence held too great a hold over her.

“Morgana—.”

What could he say? He could not refuse her and be allowed to remain at her side. He worried he’d lose her trust if he spoke out against her.

“Find those of your army with the most knowledge of spell work and bring them to me,” she ordered, “and prepare Emrys for transport.”

He hesitated, knowing he would not be able to get the situation under his control again if he didn’t say something. However, he couldn’t think of any string of words to convince her. So, giving into her will, he bowed her head.

“At once, my queen.”

She must have sensed his despair, because she lifted his chin and encouraged, “Fear not, Mordred. All will work out in our favour. You trust me, do you not?”

He nodded, but he felt no better than he had before.

 

///

 

Morning training was almost over, and Lancelot had been looking forward to meeting with Gwen for lunch, when the alarms sounded in the barracks. The soldiers swiftly collected their training weapons and made for the armoury. Once there, Lancelot caught sight of Elyan calling out orders to the soldiers already dressed in Kevlar.

“What’s happening?” Lancelot asked as Elyan’s squadron piled into rovers. They sped off towards the city, and Lancelot breath caught in thinking Winchester was under attack.

“Morgana’s here,” Elyan answered. He gripped Lancelot by the arm and pulled him towards another jeep.

Lancelot blanched. “Here? Outside the city?”

“ _Inside_. She’s at the Great Hall.”

That wasn’t possible. Morgana’s army would not have been able to get so far. They would have received word of the Neos marching south as soon as they entered the midlands.

“The others are already there. Let’s go,” Elyan said, and Lancelot quickly fit into the back of the jeep next to him. Before he’d even sat down, the tyres peeled down the road. It took them fifteen minutes to reach the city, and another five to get to the Great Hall.

Every street they passed was empty of all civilians. Only military remained as they moved to and fro into their designated positions and outlooks. As they drove closer to the hall, Lancelot spotted snipers stationed on the high roofs and windows of the buildings. All of their eyes were pointed on the hall’s courtyard.

There wasn’t a single Neo soldier in sight.

As their car drew closer to the Great Hall, a reflection of white light played against the sky, as if someone were shining a strobe lamp upwards. Even in the daylight, it paled the air.

When they arrived, Lancelot, Elyan, and the others riding with them piled out to ascend the stone steps into the courtyard. There, two-dozen British soldiers stood in a row, their guns raised and pointed menacingly. There were more snipers on the hall’s roof.

Every gun was pointed at the woman standing in the centre of the stones. She wore all black, the void matching the wild waves of her hair. The very sight of her made Lancelot’s blood run cold and took the breath from his lungs.

Morgana.

She was alone, and completely out in the open. And completely unafraid.

In fact, as Lancelot scanned the eyes of the soldiers, they appeared fearful of her. This was a fact she knew well.

Their fear, however, was with good reason. Lancelot discovered the source of the white light was Morgana’s bomb. It hovered tauntingly a few feet above her head. Lancelot knew at once it was armed, but it was nowhere near the power it could reach. Morgana was using it as a threat—a failsafe. She did not mean to detonate it.

She had come to the city for another purpose.

Never taking his eyes from her, Lancelot and Elyan made to the front of the line, where the other knights were already positioned, their swords drawn. 

“In the name of the king, stand down!” Leon bellowed, his voice echoing off the flint. Morgana made no response. It appeared as if she hadn’t even heard him. She merely continued to glance over the crowd, her stare turning the men to stone.

Lancelot did not know how many times Leon had called the same order to her, but it looked like it had been going on for a while. 

He knew Morgana would only answer to one person—and Lancelot prayed he would stay away. 

But, as if the thought had been a curse, the moment it crossed Lancelot’s mind, another shout went up from the back of the crowd. 

“Make way for the king!” 

Morgana’s eyes lit up nearly as brightly as her weapon. Arthur’s, however, were dark as he approached. His arm was out of its sling, and his sleeve was pulled over his cast. He appeared calm and collected, like he always did before battle. Such things were as natural to him as to a bird taking flight.

And yet, Lancelot barely noticed; because, right on Arthur’s heels, was Gwen. 

_No_ , he thought furiously. She couldn’t be present! He tried to tell himself that, even if Morgana detonated her weapon, Gwen would have stood a chance of getting away if she weren’t at the epicentre. It was a fool’s hope, but now even that was completely crushed. 

How could Arthur allow her to come? 

And yet, Lancelot knew better than anyone that no one _allowed_ Gwen to do anything. She would not stay away.

He caught her eyes, conveying his fear. She returned his look with strength and resolve. 

Doubling his determination to defend, Lancelot drew his sword and fell into line with the knights. Gwen stopped right in front of them, in full view of Morgana. Although, Arthur didn’t stop his slow stride until he was within a spear’s throw of his sister.

“I’m here,” he said, commanding even the echoing wind itself. Everything fell silent. “No doubt you’ve come to speak with me. Speak, then.” 

A grin stretched on Morgana’s cheeks. On any other face, it would have been warm and disarming. The sight of it on hers made Lancelot tighten his grip on his sword.

“Speak?” she answered, sounding light and entertained. “No, dear brother, I’ve come to demand.” At once, her expression twisted into hate. “Surrender to me. Leave Winchester now, and run to some far corner of this wretched world. Pray I’ll never find you.”

It was now Arthur’s turn to appear amused. “I don’t fear your weapon, Morgana. Release it, if that’s why you’ve come. The fight will continue after my death. Britain will prevail against your tyranny.” 

“You seem so sure. But it isn’t my weapon you should be afraid of today.” She looked over her shoulder at the entrance of the hall and called, “Mordred!” Then, she looked forward again, boring into Arthur, not wishing to miss his reaction to whatever was to come. 

The door to the Great Hall opened, and a dark haired man emerged into the light—but it wasn’t Mordred.

The line of Arthur’s shoulders faltered, and he took in a deep breath.

Lancelot looked at Gwen, whose lips had parted in shock and whose brow furrowed in concern. The knights, too, tensed, and Gwaine dropped his sword in favour of his gun. He looked as if he’d charge Morgana at any moment. 

As for himself, Lancelot’s chest caved at the sight of Merlin, his wrists shackled and his shoulders weighed down by the chains. He tried to walk tall, but Lancelot saw right through him. He was exhausted, his eyes bruised, his hair limp, and his skin pallid. It was difficult to see his friend like this. Merlin had always been the strongest, the bravest, the best of them. 

And he still was.

Despite it all, Merlin’s expression was resolute—aloof, even. As if captivity were merely a mild inconvenience to him. But that was Merlin: the worse it got, the more courageous he became. 

Lancelot wondered what torture he’d been through to elicit such a response. And he wished the same bravado ran through his veins, especially at that moment.

Mordred walked behind Merlin, his sword drawn, and its point against Merlin’s spine to caution him forward. However, he went unnoticed. All eyes were on Merlin, and his were exclusively on Arthur as some silent conversation passed between them. Lancelot couldn’t see Arthur’s face, but Merlin’s remained emotionless, no doubt urging Arthur not to give in to Morgana’s demands.

It was only before Merlin looked away did his expression change in the smallest way: a faint quirking of the corner of his mouth and a softening of his eyes, telling Arthur all was well, even though it wasn’t. Although it was for all to see, Lancelot was certain no one had. He felt guilty witnessing it himself. It was meant only for Arthur, as gentle as a whispered secret and as intimate as a chaste kiss.

Whatever encouragement it gave Arthur must have been enough, because he squared himself again. 

“Why doesn’t he free himself?” Elyan whispered.

Lancelot looked again at Merlin’s restraints and recognised them. “The chains. They’re the same as what Mordred imprisoned us with. They’re enchanted.” 

Merlin was able to free the knights, but Lancelot thought Morgana had placed her own spell on it. Perhaps Merlin couldn’t escape so easily.

“Relinquish your throne to me or I’ll kill your precious sorcerer,” Morgana said at once, apparently satisfied with Arthur’s reaction. 

Arthur, however, remained cool in Merlin’s confidence.

“Kill him, then,” he said, his tone suggestive of a grin. “But, I must warn you, he won’t be very happy when he wakes up.”

Lancelot fought back a smile of his own. However, his excitement dwindled when he saw Merlin’s eyes close for a long, despondent pause. 

“Oh, Arthur,” Morgana said, her voice raising an octave higher in pitying amusement. “Look closer at Mordred’s blade.”

Lancelot did so. In Mordred’s hands was a smooth sword. It might have been one of the finest blades Lancelot had ever laid eyes on, if not for the chip missing from it. However, he did not understand why it was so special. 

“That’s right, Arthur,” Morgana went on. “You recognise it. After all, it’s the blade that killed you.” Lancelot had heard of the weapon. It had been forged in a dragon’s breath. “It can do the very same to Emrys.” 

The ground seemed as if it had opened up under Lancelot’s feet. He was falling endlessly, unable to find a rope to grab onto. Hopefully, Arthur could. 

There was a lengthy pause into which Arthur tilted his head up to the small ball of light above them. It bathed his skin in its pale glow and stretched his shadow out long in every direction. He looked back at Morgana.

“I don’t see what you’re waiting for,” he said, as if it meant nothing to him. “You have the means. Kill him.”

Mordred appeared all too eager. He jammed the point of the sword closer to Merlin’s back, but Merlin barely flinched. He waited only for Morgana’s order. 

In that moment, Lancelot expected Morgana’s snide arrogance to waver. He imagined seeing her gaze flicker with hints of fear. However, if there were any, she controlled it well. In fact, a look of smug satisfaction crept onto her features. She threw a laugh over her shoulder at Merlin. “Do you see, Emrys? It’s as I’ve been telling you. He cares less for you now than he did went you were his servant. He never treated Gwen with such flippancy.” 

Merlin responded by lifting his chin in defiance and hardening his eyes. Arthur’s fist tensed at his side, but he made no other move. 

Gwen took in a deep breath and held it. Lancelot couldn’t recall the last time he’d breathed.

He prayed Arthur knew what he was doing.

“Go on, Morgana,” Arthur goaded. “Give the order.”

He remained unmoved. So did Morgana. For some time, it felt as though they might remain that way for eternity: two marble pillars standing in perfect opposition, holding up the heavens and the earth. 

And then Morgana moved. It happened so quickly. She reached into her dress as she shouted a spell. Her eyes glowed and she threw a fistful of powder to the ground. A sudden gust blew, nearly throwing Lancelot off his balance. He threw his body between Gwen and the wind, shielding her from whatever curse Morgana had incanted. 

“Merlin!” he heard Arthur shout, just before the wind died as quickly as it had sprung into life.

When Lancelot looked over his shoulder, Morgana was gone; so was her bomb, leaving the courtyard unnaturally dark as Lancelot’s eyes adjusted. She had taken Mordred with her—and Merlin. 

In the empty place where Merlin had stood, Arthur was coming to a running halt. Lancelot realised he must have jumped forward, hoping to grab Merlin before he could disappear—or to be taken with him. He was too slow, however, and now his face was stricken with loss and despair. Lancelot thought he might cry out. 

He didn’t. He remembered the soldiers around him, and stood tall before them. At once, he ordered, “Spread out through the city! They may still be close, and her army may be near!” 

Although, it was clear he knew Morgana was gone without a trace. They would not find her or any other Neo-Druids in Winchester. Still, the soldiers dispersed, the knights leading them with eagerness.

His posture tense, Arthur rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and strode towards Gwen and Lancelot. 

“Are you hurt?” Arthur asked Gwen with worry. 

“I am well,” she assured him quickly, not showing any annoyance at the question. “Arthur, how did you know she wouldn’t kill him?” 

Lancelot had wondered the same. Arthur would not gamble with Merlin’s life if he weren’t absolutely certain he’d win.

“Yesterday, I told the committee that Morgana wanted Merlin’s magic for her weapon,” he answered, “If she kills him, she’ll never get it.”

Lancelot brought his brows together. This was first he was hearing of this. “How do you know this?” 

“Merlin told me.”

“When?”

Arthur looked over his shoulder at the place where Merlin had stood, so very close and so very out of reach.

Despairingly, he said, “In a dream.”

 

///

 

Arthur usually only read Merlin's journals when he had nothing better to do. It was more often than not tedious reading. Accounts of the prophecies and the different magicks Merlin had encountered over the years were mixed in with descriptions of people long dead, doodles in the margins, quotes from books or songs, and recipes, amongst other things. Most of the time, it was an unorganized mess full of shorthand without rhyme or reason and terrible penmanship. Arthur wondered if Merlin could even make heads or tails of it now.

But Arthur did pull one of the journals off its shelf that night. He thought, maybe, its pages would help him feel closer to Merlin in some way. If he did not have Merlin beside him, at least he had Merlin's memories.

Merlin's life.

Arthur had forgotten where he'd last left off with the journals, though he thought it was maybe somewhere in the 1700s. Uncertain, he picked one at random. The dates on the top of the pages proved the journal to be from the nineteen-nineties, Arthur found as he cracked the spine and brought it to the bed.

He skimmed the first page he opened up to, in which Merlin was giving an account of the day’s events, but there was nothing special about them. Nothing out of the ordinary or life changing had happened; in fact, it seemed as if Merlin had spent most of the day inside. Arthur wondered why such tedium required remembering, or if it was even worth the energy it took to write it down.

The entry was brief and the sentences were shorter than usual, not run-ons and streams of consciousness. They seemed more like choppy thoughts that Merlin was afraid to lose if he didn't write them down quickly. The lines of the letters were different, too. They were hasty and blotchy and careless. It looked like the scrawl of a madman. Arthur couldn't focus on what the words were actually saying, but rather on the sheer urgency behind them.

The next entry was dated for the following day, but it didn't say anything about life during that time. Instead, it was a memory of Camelot. It was some obscure hunting trip they'd gone on, as uneventful as most. Arthur barely remembered it himself. But Merlin wrote of it in detail, jumping around often as though wanting to add something he'd previously forgotten. There were a number of cross-outs, too, some of them scratched hard enough to tear through the paper.

Arthur flipped the page. The next entry was about the day Arthur had become king of Camelot. The following entry was about recovering Aithusa’s egg. There was a full page written about Hunith, and even an attempted drawing of her, even though it looked nothing like her. And there was an account of the day Arthur died, written in a scribble so illegible Arthur couldn't make out most words.

When Arthur flipped to the next page, he found it dated for a year and a half after the previous entry. He furrowed his brow in surprise and checked the binding for any pages that may have been ripped out. There was nothing. It wasn't like Merlin's journals to have such a large gap in them. The longest one Arthur could remember had been a little over a month. Merlin had been meticulous, and so much lost time worried Arthur.

And then he remembered: Merlin had said he'd been in hospital in that decade. Arthur hadn't realised just how long Merlin's stay there had been.

A year and a half. The information sat on Arthur's chest like a weight. Even for Merlin's long life, a year and half was much too long.

Arthur stared at the first entry Merlin had put into the journal after he'd returned from hospital. It was short. There was only one thing scrawled beneath the date, but the letters had intent behind them. They were perfect and carefully crafted, and pressed deep into the page.

_You weren’t just a dream. Come back to me._

Often, when Arthur read Merlin's journals, he wondered what Merlin had been thinking about as he penned an entry. He never asked, as he was sure Merlin wouldn't remember, and Arthur assumed he'd never even known the emotions racing through his own mind, too much for him to express through writing.

But Arthur did not have to wonder after it anymore. He knew, quite suddenly, exactly what Merlin was thinking of when he wrote, not only that entry but every line in every journal.

He was writing to remember. And he was thinking of Arthur. Constantly. Longingly. Achingly.

Arthur realised he felt the same now.


	4. Chapter 4

Morgana could not believe the sheer ignorance Emrys possessed.

It had been two weeks since their journey to Winchester. Two weeks since Emrys had heard Arthur denounce him in front of the entire city. Clearly, he was nothing to Arthur, and Morgana was offering him everything. And yet, Emrys remained resolute. If anything, his defiance strengthened since that day. How could he not understand that Arthur would see him dead given the chance? What more could Morgana do to convince him? 

“If my may, your majesty, you’ve been . . . distracted,” Malcolm said as he buttoned up his shirt. Morgana rolled over in bed to look at him, and the rumpled sheets slid further down her shoulder, revealing a sliver of skin. She saw Malcolm’s eyes trace over it, but paid him no mind.

It was no wonder he noticed her disposition. She had been preoccupied with thoughts of Emrys for weeks now. She was beginning to think Mordred was right; he would never join their cause. Perhaps he was better off dead, after all. 

“I thought maybe this would cheer you up,” Malcolm went on, gesturing vaguely between them. 

She gave him a tight smile, not fully understanding why he would think such a thing. Still, she said, “It’s not your fault, Malcolm.” He did all he could to serve her, but there were some needs he could not satisfy. She sighed, “It’s Emrys.”

He gave her sympathetic eyes and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I thought it might be.”

“I just don’t know what else I can do,” she lamented.

“If anyone can make him see sense, it’s you, my queen.” He placed his hand on her knee supportively. “Look at all the people who fight for your cause. We fight for _you_. He’ll understand his mistake; I know he will.”

She shook her head, annoyance spiking in her. He offered no solutions. “You mustn’t underestimate his loyalty to Arthur. It runs deep. He believes his destiny as much as I believe in mine. It has shaped the man he’s become.”

Malcolm thinned his lips, pondering it. He shrugged. “Then, maybe you have to stop trying to prove Arthur’s feelings to him. You said Emrys doesn’t see himself as one of us, or that his future is here. Maybe you have to show him. Make him see who he really is.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but then the words washed over her. There may have been some merit to what Malcolm said. Morgana would show Emrys the power he had within him, but it was more than that. She had to show him what kind of man he was.

She recalled the story he’d told her about Aithusa’s death, and what he’d done to those that killed her.

And then she remembered something else: the day she died, and the cold eyes that bore into her. The last sight she had ever seen. 

Since that day, she knew there was such a wonderful, terrible darkness to Emrys. It was something to fear. It was the thing that survived centuries while everything around it perished. The thing that had killed her.

She could never hope to control it; but if she could draw it out, there would be no going back. It would be hers.

He would be hers.

The corners of her lips pulled upwards as a plan formed in her mind.

“I think,” she said, “I know just how to do that.”

 

///

 

Mordred stood outside the door to Merlin’s room, staring down the series of deadlocks before him. One by one, he twisted and unchained them. Next, he held out his hand, hovering it an inch from the wood, and spoke the incantation to relax the magical barrier around the room.

He turned to the three guards to his left. “Keep out your weapons. Do not make a move unless I tell you to.” The guards steadied themselves, each of them looking as though they were preparing themselves for battle. Mordred wished he could tell them not to be afraid—for the man inside the room was their prisoner, after all. But they were right to fear Merlin.

Even backed into a corner, stripped of the use of his magic, and worn down, the Emrys was more dangerous than any of them could possibly imagine.

By the time Mordred opened the door and filed into the room before the guards, Merlin was sitting on the edge of the bed as if he’d been waiting them. His brows arched in forced humour as faux-bright eyes above bruised skin flitted over each face. “I get _four_ visitors today? What’s the occasion?”

Behind his snark, delivered in a strained and dehydrated voice so full of false strength, Mordred heard the real question Merlin was asking. He knew they had not come to bring him a meal or let him wash. He knew their presence spelled something else was in store for him.

Mordred wondered if he, too, were afraid.

“You’re in no position to ask questions,” Mordred warned.

“I was just wondering if it’s my birthday. Is this a surprise party? Oh, that was another question, wasn’t it?”

“Enough!” Mordred yelled, not to be outdone in front of his subordinates. “If you must know, the queen requires your presence. She has a test for you.”

The vagueness of it had the desired effect. Instead of cracking another joke, Merlin’s face went hard. “What test?”

Mordred would not disclose that yet. He would soon find out, anyway, and the last thing they wanted was for him to be prepared. Instead, he said, “She believes you can still be saved.” 

“But not you?” 

“I believe you’re worse than even Arthur,” Mordred told him frankly. “He is a tyrant, but that, at least, is out in the open for everyone to see. But not you. Your influence is hidden.” All his life, the shadows were his home. He feared the light. “You have more blood on yours hands than any of us.”

“You may be on to something,” Merlin rasped. Mordred lifted a brow in what appeared to be mild interest. “Not about Arthur and me. It’s just . . . I’ve been alive all this time and so far nothing’s been able to kill me. But you . . .” He pointed a finger at Mordred. “You may just bore me to death.”

Mordred pushed a smile. “If only. Still, I obey the queen’s orders.” He half-glanced over his shoulder at the guards behind him. “Restrain him.”

Two of the guards came forward and gripped Merlin tightly by the arms. They jerked him to his feet. Merlin didn’t so much as flinch. He continued to regard Mordred with cool indifference, not a single muscle in his face contracting. 

The guard positioned behind Mordred held his gun at the ready regardless. 

Mordred then reached into his pocket and produced a small black pouch, which he unzipped to the syringe inside. It was filled with thick golden fluid. 

At last, Merlin looked afraid. He was trying his hardest to tame it from his expression, but it flashed in his eyes and revealed itself in the way he tried to step backwards against the bed. It satisfied Mordred to no end. 

“What are you doing?” Merlin demanded, his voice containing only the slightest of quivers.

Mordred held up the needle to the light and tested the stopper. A drip of amber raced down the steel like liquid gold. It was rarer than gold, and far more precious to those under its spell. Mordred pitied anyone who sought it, and something in the lowest pit of his stomach squirmed at the thought of subjecting Merlin to it.

He told himself it was no more than Merlin deserved.

Not letting his doubts rise to the surface, he said, “You know what this is already. Lapis. Its addicts are rampant in every city in the provinces.” The drug gave the user low-grade magic, but its effects didn’t last very long. Most used it for the high it gave, but Mordred heard of some magicians using it to enhance spells and charms they’d performed. 

“Hold out his arm,” Mordred demanded.

Merlin began to struggle against the guards, trying to no avail to free himself. He was no match for them without his magic. He shouted, “You can’t! Mordred, you can’t! Think about what you’re doing!”

Mordred could not focus on the unconcealed terror on Merlin’s face, despite how much he wanted to. He was too busy trying to keep his hand steady as he moved closer. He’d seen the long-term effects of the drug. While he wouldn’t go as far as to _not_ wish such a fate on his worst enemy, he did wonder if it was worth it. Merlin would never prove himself to be one of them, no matter what Morgana wanted. This was an exercise in futility.

It would be easier to kill Merlin instead, now that he had the means swinging on his belt. 

“ _Morgana_ has thought about it,” he insisted, grabbing Merlin’s cuffed wrist to steady it. It wasn’t easy to hold. Merlin tried to squirm out of it. Part of Mordred wanted to fail.

“I’m asking _you_ to! This is a mistake, Mordred! Think of what that can do to me! To my magic— _my_ magic! Anything could happen, Mordred. I could kill everyone on this base—Morgana included!”

Mordred felt himself hesitate as Merlin’s words hit home.

Merlin must have sensed his apprehension, because he said, “Listen to your own judgment. I will perform whatever test Morgana wants. I have no choice in the matter, but you have a choice about this. Think of the consequences, please!” 

Another micro-drop of the drug slid down the sharp silver of the needle. Mordred watched its rapid decent, and his uncertainty grew into dread that sat heavily in the pit of his stomach. Merlin stopped squirming, as he must have thought he’d gotten through to Mordred. 

It only reminded Mordred of all Merlin’s lies—of his quick and silver tongue, as sharp as the point of the needle. Mordred could not allow him to get into his head. The only consequence there would be if Mordred didn’t not carry out his orders was Morgana’s wrath. He looked at the men holding Merlin on either side, and knew he could not show weakness in front of them. He could not allow them to think it was okay to go against the queen’s orders.

Still, he was willing to risk it for one thing: “Tell me why you spared my life.”

Merlin stilled. His eyes went blank and his lips pressed together as if to keep the words inside. He would never reveal the secret, so Mordred decided not to pity him.

“Then, you’ve chosen this.” Quickly, he grabbed Merlin by the wrist and stretched his arm out.

“No, Mordred!” He began to resist again, but Mordred held him too tightly.

“I will not let the queen down,” Mordred told him firmly, making up his mind. He pushed back Merlin’s sleeve to the elbow and to the blue veins beneath translucent white skin. It was a strange thought, but Mordred at once understood that the Great and Powerful Emrys was no more than flesh and bone and blood, just like any other man. 

“Mordred, no! No, stop!”

Ignoring the protests, Mordred punctured the skin and pushed down on the stopper. The syringe’s contents drained slowly.

Merlin had stopped protesting. His eyes, wide enough to show the white around his irises, stared in horror down at his arm. 

The drug was gone now. Mordred swallowed hard, his gut squirming in the knowledge that what he’d done could not be undone. He pushed the feeling away and stepped backwards.

Merlin’s pupils were blown up, and the tight ring of colour around them was flickering back and forth from blue to gold.

And then, for less than a moment, Mordred thought he saw Merlin’s skin illuminate faintly in the same gold. He blinked it away, certain he’d only imagined it.

Merlin’s lashes fluttered. His limbs went weak and pliant against the guards.

Mordred was satisfied he wouldn’t put up a fight as the preliminary effects of the drug washed over him.

He nodded to his men. “Let’s go.”

 

///

 

The car was moving backwards.

It was driving down the road, through the base, and towards Morgana. It was headed in the right direction, but against the rotation of the earth. West to east. It was moving backwards. Or at least, that’s how it felt to Merlin. The earth continued to spin beneath him. He thought he could see it turning before his eyes.

Mordred was in the passenger front seat. A guard was driving. They barely said a word to each other the entire trip but, when they did, Merlin knew what they were going to say before they uttered a syllable. There was another guard sitting next to him, his gun on his lap. He never said anything, but he was nervous—scared, in fact, even if he did a good job at keeping the emotion out of his body language. 

The car came to a halt, and it started going forward again along with the globe’s turning axis. Nothing was ever standing still, Merlin realised. 

There was a shuffling of leather as Mordred and the guards got out of the car. The doors closing were as loud as a hammer knocking against a nail. Merlin jumped, and a small spark danced off the metal of the guard’s gun as if a rock had struck it. The guard gasped and nearly dropped the weapon. The cuffs on Merlin’s wrists flashed in gold. 

Then, Merlin was out of the car. He didn’t quite remember being ripped from the backseat. He was overwhelmed by the onslaught of the morning sun’s bright rays, pink and cherry all around him. They swam through the air to warm the cold ground. Merlin’s eyes followed their decent, flowing as quickly as the current of a river. 

He felt as if he were floating on them, wrapped in their warmth. He felt as if he could drown in them—in their colour, in the vibrations of sound they caused that he’d never noticed before. Everything was making sounds—singing to him. The molecules that made up the air and grass and road were swarming around him, buzzing and banging against each other and sparking when they hit against one another.

The spaces between the atoms were bathed in golden light.

The same amber was inside of Merlin. He felt it bleeding out of him, into him, through him until the air was like liquid around him.

When the guards pushed him forward, it was like wading through water—and it was like losing himself to the sweeping current. His legs moved as quickly as an eagle streaking through the sky beneath its wings, but he was certain he was walking at a normal pace. 

He wanted to say something. He wanted to call for Arthur—suddenly so certain that his will alone could materialize Arthur before him if he voiced the desire. But he couldn’t get the word passed his lips. And he couldn’t feel Arthur anywhere. His presence in the universe blended with everything else.

He was taken inside the building and towards a lift that pressed downward into the bowels of the building. The motion it caused disoriented Merlin. He felt his body following the movement of the lift, but his unfettered consciousness remained floors above his head. It shot off in tendrils through every corridor and into every room, like a gas filling up a container. It took awhile to catch up with Merlin below.

When it did, he felt too present—too alive. And, simultaneously, he felt as if he were watching himself from very far away. 

When the blaring ding of the lift sounded and the doors slid open, Merlin was led towards a door with two other guards posted on either side. Their breaths tripped out of them audibly, but they didn’t flinch. One of them reached towards the door and opened it. At first, Merlin didn’t think anything was on the other side of it. What was through the threshold appeared to be the inside of a black hole in the dead of lonely, cold space. 

His stomach lurched when he was pushed inside, and one of the guards was thrown back as if pulled by an invisible string. But Merlin’s fear was for not, because his feet stumbled along a polished black floor. He stood straight and looked around him. The room was small, window-less, and his reflection blurred and warped in the polished black tiles of the walls. It was a chasm. The sole light coming from the high ceiling cast shadows on Mordred’s face, hollowing out his features to resemble a skull.

Merlin wondered if he looked the same. 

Mordred removed the chains from around Merlin, and caught them before they hit the floor—but Merlin heard them clatter anyway in his imagination. The cuffs on his wrists remained.

Mordred said nothing. He only gave Merlin a severe look and turned away. The door slammed closed behind him, leaving Merlin alone in the negative space. 

He slowly looked this way and that, unsure of what he was searching for or what he was expected to do. The room was empty all but for his thousands of reflections. Before his eyes, the darkness began to spin and swirl like a kaleidoscope. He shook away the dizziness from his mind and closed his eyes tightly, trying to will it away.

He wanted this to end. He wanted to regain control. But the more he fought it, the more his senses intertwined. Each of his natural senses were amplified and overcome by the magic within him.

And then he heard footsteps. They were stories above the room in which he stood. He heard heartbeats, too—five of them, all in the throne room. A sixth was added when Mordred walked through the doors. 

_He’s down there_ , Merlin heard Mordred’s voice say as clear as if he were beside him. 

_Good. Then, we can begin_ , said Morgana.

A small red light flashed on in the corner of the black room. It would have been easily missed if Merlin hadn’t been so attuned to his surroundings. He looked towards it, to the steady, blank eye of the single camera. He knew Morgana could see him. He knew everyone in the throne room was watching him.

All confusion suddenly drained from him. He was overcome by an eerie calm that silenced his breath and steadied his bones. The air continued to buzz around him, but it became the wind in the eye of the storm. He focused on the throne room. 

He felt Morgana in there, of course. He felt Mordred. Malcolm was there, too, his gun holstered. Two other people were in the room—a man and a woman. They sat on the floor with bowls of smouldering herbs and oils before them on an alter of candles and cloth. A small bowl of crushed powder was next to them. 

“Morgana,” Merlin said, finding his voice. He knew she could hear him. “Why are you hiding in your throne room? Why not face me yourself?” 

_How does he know where we are? Did you tell him?_ Morgana asked Mordred. 

_No_. 

Merlin felt dangerous. He felt indestructible. Were they trying to break him? They’d failed. They’d given him everything he needed to face the trial to come, whatever it may be. They’d made him stronger.

“He didn’t tell me,” Merlin said, knowing how it would unnerve them all. “I can see you. I can see all of you.” Not with his eyes, but in his mind. The picture was shifting but clear, like viewing the world with sonar.

He felt Morgana turn to the man and woman with the herbs. _He’s ready. Begin_.

Merlin was ready. 

The woman pinched her fingers into the powder and tossed into the smoking bowl. And for a moment, nothing happened.

Merlin held his breath and waited, but he didn’t know what for.

His answer came with the slightest shift of the air. The particles of it were tightening to make room for a gaping hole. The golden light grew wide and binding. When the molecules snapped back into place, a man stood in the room with him. The Neo soldier was dressed in Kevlar, with a black helmet’s reflective visor screening his face. There was a sword in his hand. 

The same fear as the guard in the car reeked off of this soldier. He exuded a cold certainty that death was in the room, and Merlin knew that it wouldn’t be his own. But he also knew at once why the soldier was there. Morgana wanted Merlin to fight him. She wanted Merlin to kill him with magic, so that the power would be collected and put towards her weapon.

He would not do that. What was more, he would not take a life because she willed it. She thought she had given him no options, but he was choosing. He would not play into her hands.

The soldier came forward, holding the sword tightly in both hands as if it were a baseball bat. Merlin had not made a move, and already the soldier was on the defensive.

The sword swiped through the air, and Merlin jumped out the way to avoid it.

“You don’t have to do this,” Merlin warned, even though he knew it would do no good. The soldier’s heart was pulsing around him, echoing off the mirrored walls. Merlin did not know who the soldier was more afraid of him: him or Morgana.

There was another swipe, and Merlin’s head might have gone with it if he hadn’t ducked in time. He wasn’t certain how he anticipated the move. He’d heard it whispered to him just a moment before it happened. 

He tried to think of a way to incapacitate the soldier without using his magic—but he came up empty. The energy of the Old Religion was thrashing in his veins, begging and aching to be let loose. It argued that this man was Arthur’s enemy, and one less Neo soldier in the world would be a good thing. It argued that it would be so easy to kill this man—child’s play. It would only take a little bit of magic. Just a fraction of it. Surely, he could spare just a little for Morgana’s weapon?

The whispers turned into shouts, and Merlin couldn’t focus. The room danced around him, rocking like a ship on the high seas in the middle of a storm. 

The soldier jabbed the blade forward as Merlin stumbled on his own feet, and its point slit a gash into his upper arm. 

Merlin barely felt it. It was as his someone had scratched their nail across his flesh; but, when he looked down at the ripped clothing and the crimson staining his skin, he knew the wound was deep. 

He thought of the scar tissue on Arthur’s chest. He remembered when it was fresh, when blood seeped from it, too. He thought of all the soldiers who could deal Arthur another fatal blow if given the chance. This soldier before him was included in them. 

And Merlin’s anger bubbled through his veins as he decided, yes, one less Neo Druid in the world was worth the tiny bit of magic it would take to end his life.

Merlin looked up at him, and heard the soldier gasp. Death swooped in, becoming a tangible thing. The black of the soldier’s Kevlar mixed with the shadows of the room. Merlin pushed both hands through the air, making his shackles illuminate, and the soldier flew backward. He hit the wall awkwardly, making his neck snap back. When he fell the tiled floor, he was motionless. Merlin felt the moment his heartbeat ceased to thrum through the space between them.

He felt Morgana’s smirk.

_Again_.

No.

Merlin was a fool to think it would be so easy—that one soldier would be the end of it. He should have known Morgana’s bloodlust would not be satisfied there. 

He’d show her what it truly meant to dare test him.

More dust was tossed into a smouldering bowl, this time by the man in the throne room. Matter vibrated around Merlin again, and another soldier appeared out of the darkness. This one was smaller in stature than the first, and Merlin reasoned she was a woman. She had a gun in her hands. As soon as she materialized, she held it up towards him. Her finger hovered on the trigger but she didn’t pull it. The weapon shook in her grasp. 

Merlin focused on the gun, tasting its iron on his tongue. He imagined it crumpling in on itself, and suddenly the metal creaked and groaned. 

The soldier yelped from behind her visor and dropped it, but it did not fall. Suspended, the pliable metal took on a new shape, bending and breaking into a sharp spike. Merlin pushed it forward, and it drove through the front of the Kevlar vest and out the other side. The soldier screamed, but it sounded very far away. She fell to her knees, and then to the floor, writhing in pain. It didn’t take long for her to still.

The magic inside of Merlin rose up and wrapped around him like an invisible shield in preparation for the next round. It felt good surrounding him—warm and close, like a second skin. Merlin could breathe easier into it.

And then three more soldiers were before him. There was a rifle in one’s hand, a spear in another’s, and a hand grenade in the third’s. They were all clutching their weapons, their knees trembling. It satisfied Merlin immeasurably—their fear. After all, they’d caused enough of it throughout the provinces. 

He’d sleep soundly knowing there were three less in Morgana’s army. More importantly, Arthur could sleep safely—if only Merlin allowed the blackness of the room to swallow him. It would devour him, and he would repay it in kind. 

The cuffs burned brightly as he spread his arms out like wings, gathering the magic around him. He called it forth when he brought his hands together. The soldiers slid towards each other, their boots squeaking against the floor. Merlin took the shield that surrounded him and transferred the energy to contain them. It wasn’t for protection. It was a prison.

He closed his eyes and envisioned fire. Heat reddened his cheeks already, singing his skin. His irises were the same colour as flame when the grenade in the third soldier’s hand went off. The explosion lit up in a circle within the energy field. Merlin merely felt its aftershocks. 

When the magic shield faded, smouldering Kevlar and burnt limbs thudded into a pile on the floor. Merlin could not distinguish the human parts from the armour. It all smelled the same, like cooking meat and rubber. 

Merlin waited for the next round. He waited and waited but nothing came. 

“Is that it?” he shouted, his voice echoing around him. He’d go through every Neo soldier in York if Morgana wanted him to. He’d take them all on. He’d end the war now singlehandedly.

And then, he could go home. To Arthur. To Dagnija. To his friends. Arthur could be crowned and Albion would come to be.

The magic raged beneath his skin, egging him on. His thoughts were clouded in amber hues. 

But nothing came. 

He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the throne room. It was harder to place anyone so far away now. All he felt was the presence of the guards outside the black room.

They would have to do. 

He walked towards the door and pressed his hand against the cold metal. He reached through the walls, feeling the blood in their veins and the breath in their lungs. He listened to their heartbeats and willed them to stop. 

He curled his hand into a fist and squeezed until his knuckles went white. 

There must have been shouts. There must have been panic as the guards fought against their own bodies. Merlin only felt their weakened, sputtering pulses. And then he felt nothing. 

It was over. 

His breath came out of him like he’d run a marathon. He tamed it and turned to the camera. He could no longer see Morgana, but she could see him.

He hoped she was afraid, and he hoped she knew she could end up like these soldiers if he decided it so. 

“Did I pass your test?”

 

///

 

The very last rays of sunlight spread its tendrils across the floor of the throne room, tingeing Merlin’s vision with a fiery hue. Outside the window, the bustling training pitch was shadowed by the hills on the horizon, and the wispy clouds hanging low in the sky swam in the breeze like blood.

Merlin had been dumped in the throne room hours ago. They’d led him out of the black room after the drug’s effects had subsided, and took him directly upstairs, where he was made to wait for Morgana. She’d certainly kept him waiting. 

After the first hour, with the fire of the fight still in him, his anticipation dwindled, and he tried his hand at escaping. All doors and windows were locked with an enchantment, and he was almost certain Malcolm was posted outside the main entrance. And Merlin was far too exhausted to fight him off. 

He was instead left alone with his thoughts. As the hours dragged on, putting time between him and the black room, he grew ashamed of his actions. His anger had gotten the better of him, turned him into something he prayed he was not.

When the drug left his system, his eyes itched for sleep, his head pounded with every heartbeat, his skin felt pulled too tight around him, and his bones were weights. Nauseous and dizzy, he’d sat down in an armchair to rest and, without knowing it, fell asleep. When he awoke, the sun was setting, and he felt even worse than he had before, both mentally and physically. Confusion swept over him, his mind unwilling to catch up with his waking body, and all sense of time eluded him. It could have been the 1100s, and he was in his Glastonbury hut overlooking Avalon; or he could have been in Italy during the Renaissance; or perhaps Sweden in the late nineteenth century. 

However, when the door across the room opened, he presently remembered exactly where he was. He sat up straight, straining his protesting muscles, and blinked into focus. 

Morgana swept into the room, a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a bandage in her hands. She halted just inside as the door closed behind her, and the two of them regarded one another for a long pause, the expansive room between them. Merlin felt his breath stop in anxiety. 

At last, she broke the spell by crossing towards him. The smallest wisp of a smile was on her features, but Merlin wasn’t sure if that was meant to disarm or frighten him. 

Without a word, she perched herself on the arm of his chair and reached for his wrist. He didn’t mean to jolt away, but whatever traces of the drug still inside of him made him skittish. His magic thrashed, sending his body with it. He could feel it rise up to meet hers.

Her smile deepened into a frown. “Do you want that to get an infection?” she demanded, nodding to his arm. In truth, Merlin didn’t remember his wound until that moment. His sleeve was torn and stained red, but the cut itself had scabbed over. It would take days to heal, if it didn’t reopen. 

“I can’t even feel it,” he admitted, more out of perplexity than resistance. He tried to remember the pain when he’d first gotten it. It should have stung more than it had.

“You will.” She’d said like it was a promise. “Or you _would_. Luckily, people like us don’t have to concern ourselves with such trivial matters.” Her smile was back, the mockery of something pleasant, as she gripped his arm as swiftly as a snake catching it prey. He gritted his teeth against her touch. 

It should have stung more, too. It should have burned. 

Once she was certain he’d submit, she released him to uncap the alcohol and pour some onto the bandage. The sterile smell immediately arrested him and went straight to his head. He leaned back against the chair.

She reached forward and dabbed his wound, which sent spikes of sharp pain through his skin, but they quickly subsided. He must have reacted in some way, because she seemed awfully pleased suddenly. 

“Aren’t you lucky to have me?” she taunted.

Merlin closed his eyes slowly. All the fight went out of him.

Then, he felt her fingers wrap around his arm over the wound. She uttered a spell, and more pain seared throughout him. When it faded, he was healed and her hand was gone. Morgana had stood up. She placed the bottle and bloodied gauze onto the table and sat in the chair across from him.

His skin prickled against her stare. When his eyes dragged open, she did not look away. With a sinking sensation, he realised she was regarding him with a favourable expression—if not triumph. His throat constricted.

That stare was so familiar, a memory of another. Of Arthur.

From afar, the Pendragon siblings were as opposite as could be, a fact of which all of Britain knew. But there were other facts, ones no one knew, ones Merlin had tricked himself into barring from his mind as the years took him further away from Camelot.

Arthur and Morgana were related. They had grown up together. This close, it was hard not to see how much they shared, and their expressions weren’t even the half of it. It was everything else.

Their unwavering, stubborn determination to reach their goals. Their easy smiles that built you up and their furious stares that tore you down. Their speech patterns and the haughty education of their voices; and the way they spoke with confidence, as if they were always right, and you wanted to believe them even when you knew they were wrong. The regal upward tilt of their chins and firmness of their postures, both impossibly courageous and infuriatingly arrogant. Their ability to feign control and leadership, even when they were internally crumbling.

In the beginning, all those traits were overshadowing in Arthur, and it took time for Merlin to see the rest of him—all the golden and beautiful bits hidden beneath, just in need of a good shining. There had been a time when Merlin hated all of these attributes, but he’d forgotten that time completely. How he loved them so. How he’d loved them before he even realised he’d fallen for Arthur. How hard it was to see so much of Arthur mirrored in Morgana. 

But the fact remained that the Pendragon was deep-seated in them both. In Merlin’s eyes, throughout the ages, there had ever only been three crowns: Arthur and his crown of thorns, Morgana and her crown of steel, and Uther’s crown of blood that held the three together.

He tried so hard to forget that, but all the recent weeks spent with Morgana had only made him confront it.

“What do you want, Morgana?” he said, trying to keep his voice above a whisper. He wanted nothing more than to go back to his confined room and sleep, despite how quickly it would cause the horrors of tomorrow to come.

“For you to admit I was right,” she answered promptly, raising her chin proudly. “You let your magic free. You showed yourself who you can be if only you’d let go to the lies you’ve been telling yourself.” 

Merlin looked away from her, his eyes flitting against the portraits and bookshelves. His gaze attached itself to the figurine of a ballet dancer on the table nearest the door. It wasn’t interesting in the least, but it was something to look at that wasn’t Morgana—something delicate with porcelain skin and a flawless sheen. She had been that in his eyes once. He blinked away and fixed his eyes on the door instead. 

“The only reason my magic isn’t free is because you’ve chained it,” he told her. 

“You don’t really believe that, do you? What use have you ever had for it other than serving a man who not long ago condemned our like to death? You believe you’re striving for good, but you cannot see you’ve become his prisoner—not mine. It is _your_ magic. It should belong to you, to do with it what you will. It should not be the lesser man’s to command.”

_Lesser man_. Merlin scoffed in disgust, though he wasn’t certain if the feeling was towards her or himself. His chest ached whenever he thought of the havoc he’d caused just a few stories beneath his feet. How many bodies had he dropped? 

They were the enemy, yes. It helped Arthur’s cause, of course. Their deaths did not bother him. It was their killings that had. It was the way he’d done it. 

She sat back, her smirk returning as she crossed her legs primly. “I have seen the anger in you, Emrys, and I have seen your pain. Don’t forget, I’ve been inside your head. I’ve seen it in your dreams, and in your actions. I do not blame you for it. You have every right to be angry, every right to despair, after all you’ve been through. I knew if I could draw it out, you would see yourself for who you are, not what you pretend to be for Arthur. Today, you’ve proven to us all what is inside of you. You showed me who you truly are.” 

The anger she spoke of boiled up inside of him, and he couldn’t keep it at bay. His emotions were too frayed, and his body too weary. Still, he found the energy to look upon her with scorn. “You _drugged_ me!” 

The outburst did not faze her in the slightest. “Oh, yes, you’re such a _victim_ , after all. I merely allowed you to understand your own power. Do not deny you enjoyed it. I watched you take those lives as if it were sport.”

Merlin opened his mouth, but no words came from it. He held her gaze, hoping it would express an argument for him. However, if it had, it was weak, and she easily won.

Light came into her eyes. “You know it wasn’t the drug, Emrys. Think of what we can accomplish with such power unleashed. You know you belong amongst your own kind, with Mordred and myself.” 

He shook his head balefully. “Belong with you? You can’t even call me by my name.”

“Your mother may have given you one name, but that is not what the prophecies call you. Emrys. They gave the power in you a name. It’s meant to have a life of its own. You owe it your loyalty.” 

He shook his head again, trying to rattle the words away. “No. My name is Merlin. I am loyal to Arthur.” 

Her expression soured. “A man who has never afforded you the same loyalty—or respect. Does he still bark orders at you, or has he finally trained you well enough to come to heel?” 

Merlin balled his fist, and felt the press of the metal of his wedding ring. It felt cold.

She leaned forward, so certain she’d had him writhing on her hook. “He doesn’t know what you’ve told me about Aithusa, does he?” 

Merlin didn’t answer, not that he needed to. She already knew, but the confirmation satisfied her. 

“You believe he’ll see you as a monster if he knows,” she went on sagely. “It’s for the very reason you hid your magic from him for so long. It’s because you know in your heart that’s exactly as he sees you—the enemy. It’s how he’ll always view those with magic, and you can never change that. You know of his deeds as king of Camelot. You know he abhors everything you are.” 

His eyes dropped to his lap, and it was gradually becoming harder to find the air. Each and every memory of Arthur denouncing magic filled his mind; as did each moment when Arthur _almost_ embraced magic, only to despise it more in the end. So many times, Merlin had come so close to changing his mind. He’d fallen short every time. Peace was continuously just out of his grasp. 

But no, it was different now. Arthur was different. The past was behind them.

“He didn’t know—,” Merlin began to say, but Morgana cut him off.

“Even worse! He did not tailor his beliefs for you. He spewed his hatred and made you listen, regardless of whether he knew of your magic or not. He showed you his true colours, Emrys. He saw you as a monster, and he made you see yourself as such.” 

Why was she making so much sense? Why was Merlin allowing her to make sense? He tried so hard to cling to reason.

“He’s changed. There was a time when you would have been proud of the king he’s become.”

“A time when I was young and under Uther’s impression,” she shot back. “I have learned much since then, and I know Arthur’s destiny is not to unite us. But you’ve tired hard to mould him into your image, Emrys—to make him the king you wish to see. Why not cut out the middle man and build up the world yourself?”

“It’s not about that!” he yelled, his breath sobbing out of him with every pause. He’d had enough of this. He wanted to go home. “I don’t want to be king, Morgana! I would hide who I am for another thousand years and more if it meant he’d stay alive!”

That was the only reason he needed: Arthur. Arthur was more to him than a hope. Arthur was a fact. He was alive and safe, and he’d fulfil their destiny. Merlin had to trust in that—in his destiny, the thing that had brought him only pain and hardship and a hundred lonesome lifetimes. But it had also brought him Arthur—twice, no less. 

It was worth it. 

He had to cling to that, to Arthur. The thought of him would battle Morgana’s lies. It would win. Merlin was too weak to win on his own. He needed Arthur—god, he needed him right now.

He’d give anything to just be with him. 

Morgana raised a brow, seeming only mildly interested. “I should have expected such selfishness from you,” she told him. “What of all the others who will have to hide because you made the wrong choice? How easy it must be to put them from your mind when you seclude yourself from them. But no more, Emrys.”

She stood up, straightened out her skirt, and walked to be level with him. “Come with me.”

He shot her a scornful glare. He didn’t want to go anywhere with her.

“Come,” she said again, more forcefully now. 

He didn’t know why he listened. Perhaps he was still too tired to resist. He stood and followed her out of the room. In the corridor, Malcolm followed in stride behind them, his gun raised. Morgana walked in front of Merlin, her posture impossibly straight and the clack of her dark heels filling Merlin’s thoughts. 

He watched her as he walked, becoming unaware of where she was leading him or where they were going. He kept his eyes on the curves of her shoulders and the neat bun resting on her head, not a hair out of place. 

It wasn’t until he felt the cool evening air on his cheeks did he realise she’d brought him outside. Before them, soldiers and staff moved to and fro. There must have been a hundred of them, each intent on finishing their daily errands before the sun went down. Training had just ended, and many were filing from the field.

Every one of them stopped when they saw Morgana, standing still on the stairs above them. They turned to her, held their gazes to the ground in reverence, and dropped to one knee. Merlin always knew that Morgana had inspired loyalty, but to see it so plainly made his heart skip a beat in fear.

These were not Saxons invading the land. These were British people. He’d never really thought of them like that before. 

These were subjects to a sovereign—to Morgana, not Arthur. The sea before him was deeper and wider than any he’d ever sailed, and the realisation of it numbed him. 

He realised Morgana’s eyes were on him, constantly assessing.

He tamed his features and said bitingly, “You’ve certainly taught them well.” 

And then, she laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “They’re not bowing to me,” she said, perplexing him. “They bow to you. Word has spread quickly of what you achieved today. To them, I am a queen. But you, the Great Emrys, are a god.” 

He tried to swallow down the lump in throat. He tried to keep his eyes from growing wide. He looked back at the crowd of genuflectors. They were still bending their knees. If his pulse had skipped before, it raced now. His magic crashed against his skin, desperate to seek out all the power the crowd before him commanded.

They couldn’t be showing him such reverence. This must have been some trick. They knew he was Arthur’s. They knew he was their enemy. 

Or did they? What did Morgana promise them? Merlin wanted to give them what they sought—peace, freedom, and all else that had caused them in their desperation to follow Morgana—but not this way. Not Morgana’s way. 

He felt Morgana’s fingers on his shoulder. She said to him, “Do you see all those relying on your destiny, Emrys? All those who no longer wish to hide or be hunted as we were?”

He turned his head and found her still looking at him.

“We could be their saviours.” 

He wanted to say yes. 

“There’s another way.”

“There is no other way,” she maintained. “Hate cannot so easily be stripped from a heart. You cannot strip it from Arthur’s. Why should we bear it any longer? Is it not our time to claim what is rightfully ours?” She tilted her head empathetically. “Have you not endured enough pain?” 

_Arthur_ , he tired to tell himself. _Arthur_. But he was too tired to reach his magic out to feel him. Arthur was so very far away. Merlin needed him nearer. Merlin needed Arthur to remind him who he was.

Or maybe he was what Morgana said. He didn’t quite know in that moment. 

What he did know was this: his heart broke thinking about the people before him, and the suffering they’d lived through since their first breath—and all those who had suffered until their last throughout the centuries. All at the hands of those who saw them as monsters. Merlin knew that feeling very well.

When Merlin was a young man, he had promised himself he’d do all he could so that no one would have to hide as he had. When had he lost sight of that? Why wasn’t he doing more to help them?

_Arthur_ , he begged. He’d waited so long for Arthur. He was so tired of waiting.

 

///

 

Arthur felt the linens next to him shuffle. The rustling sound they made caused him to drift warmly back into consciousness just moments before a pair of arms wrapped around his torso. One slid its way between Arthur’s side and the mattress, and the other fit beneath his arm. They locked him in close, tight and safe, without intent of ever letting go.

He hummed contentedly, his eyes still closed. “Merlin.” 

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Merlin whispered into his hair.

Arthur blinked his eyes open. They came to focus on darkened stained glass windows and flint walls, shadows dancing in the orange fire glow. He was suddenly all too aware of how distant Merlin felt, despite the pressure on his chest. The touch was a fleeting thing, barely even there to begin with. 

“You didn’t,” Arthur said, trying to push lightness into his voice. “Or were you trying to go undetected as you spied on my dreams?”

He expected Merlin to rumble with laughter at that, or at least force mirth to hide what he was really feeling. However, Merlin didn’t even try. He let out a shallow sigh through his nostrils. Arthur was acutely aware of the black mass hovering in his heart, deepening and swarming in the places in between each pulse.

He twisted around to look at Merlin, who offered a weak smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

“What is it?” Arthur wondered, not sure he wanted to know the answer. The last time Merlin visited him in a dream, he’d said he couldn’t risk doing it again on a whim. He wouldn’t have come unless it was necessary. Arthur’s chest clenched in cold anticipation. “What’s she done?” 

Merlin thinned his lips and shook his head gently. He appeared as if he were trying to memorize Arthur’s face. “I just needed to see you.”

And perhaps that was the most terrible answer he could have possibly given. Goosebumps ran down Arthur’s arms.

He rolled onto his back, breaking out of Merlin’s embrace, and propped himself up by his elbows. The tips of Merlin’s hair reflected the firelight, and his sharp nose cast shadows on the far side of his face. The skin around Arthur’s eyes tightened as he scrutinized him. 

“What’s she done?” he asked again, more forcibly that time.

Merlin’s eyes, previously so intent on meeting Arthur’s, flickered to the sheets.

“You’re right. I’m here for no reason. I shouldn’t have come like this.”

Arthur seized his wrist, afraid Merlin might fade away if he didn’t. When he did so, Merlin took in a sharp breath through his nose, as if preparing for harm. Guilt washed over Arthur, and then anger replaced it. He recalled the way Merlin looked as Morgana’s prisoner. He was tired and stretched too thin. It had taken all of Arthur’s willpower to not run to him. To be so close, and to see Merlin suffering and in chains, had been agony.

“Is she hurting you?” he demanded. He was unsure whether he should tighten or loosen his grip around Merlin’s wrist.

Merlin snorted to play it off. “Trust me, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Arthur wasn’t sure if that meant _yes, she’s hurting me_ or _no, it’s worse than that_. However, it was Morgana, so he was positive whatever she was inflicting on Merlin was more sadistic than he could ever imagine. And, if her last visit to Winchester was anything to go by, Merlin was wrapped up in danger. 

“Merlin, please don’t—,” Arthur huffed in frustration, but stopped himself short before the cutting words _lie to me_ broke Merlin’s skin. 

Merlin heard them anyway. Sadly, he said, “I’m not.”

Arthur realised he was grinding his teeth. He had to consciously loosen the tension in his jaw. “We need to put an end to this, Merlin,” he decided. “It’s been months, and you haven’t collected any useful information.”

Merlin opened his mouth to protest, but Arthur aborted the argument.

“You haven’t collected any information at all! Meanwhile, Mordred has his sword back.” 

“It’s too dangerous for you to come here.” 

“It’s too dangerous for you to stay! She’s already threatened to kill you—in front of all of Winchester, might I add. It’s only a matter of time until she makes good on that promise.”

Merlin rolled his eyes and sat up. “She wasn’t going to kill me. If she wanted to, she would have done it already. It would be a waste of my magic.”

“Then what was that little charade all about?” Arthur demanded, sitting up to keep his stare. “To taunt me?”

“It wasn’t about you.” Merlin’s voice dropped in volume. He tried to look away again. “She was trying to prove a point. To me. About you.” 

Arthur furrowed his brows in concern. He knew how insidious Morgana’s ideas could be. She’d raised armies on her false promises alone. Even as children, Morgana was always talking Arthur into doing things he knew he shouldn’t do. There were always consequences. 

“What point?”

Merlin sighed heavily, like he regretted ever coming to Arthur.

“ _What_ point?”

“That you don’t care for me. That you’d let me die because of your hatred of magic.” 

Arthur would have laughed if Merlin weren’t so serious. It might have come out as dry and bitter, anyway, and he realised he had no right to it. Sheepishly, he said, “I suppose what I said only played into her plans.” 

“She may think so, but you knew she wouldn’t kill me. You called her bluff. It was a good tactic.” 

But Arthur hadn’t known—not for certain. He’d suspected; he’d hoped. Mostly, he hated himself for gambling with Merlin’s life in such a way, but he knew Merlin would see the plan for what it was. There’d be nothing to forgive. Still, Arthur regretted it. “I must admit, I had my doubts.” 

Merlin didn’t even blink. He was far too trusting of Arthur. “It was a good tactic,” he repeated.

“You know I would never—,” Arthur felt the need to say, despite Merlin’s insistence. His past sins pressed in around him like spectres, refusing to return to the grave no matter how he tried to repent. He could not put them to rest. If he had Merlin’s forgiveness, maybe it would be enough.

“You can’t let her inside your head. Tell me you don’t believe her.”

There was the briefest flicker in Merlin’s gaze, enough to form a pit in Arthur’s gut. Arthur held his breath, but then Merlin’s features moulded into resolve. 

“Do you think, even for a moment, I’d ever betray you?” he asked, half-wounded and half-baleful.

“Never,” Arthur told him truthfully. If anyone could resist Morgana’s influence, it was Merlin. But that only presented it’s own problem: “Which is why you can’t stay in York any longer. She’ll understand you’ll never join her sooner or later. She may be unwilling to kill you now, but that could change—today, tomorrow, next week. It doesn’t matter. You and I both know she’s unpredictable, and she has a temper that—.” 

“A Pendragon with a temper? I’ve never had to deal with one of those before,” Merlin deadpanned.

Arthur allowed it. He had a point, after all, though he hoped his temper was somewhat less volatile than Morgana’s—and much less murderous. 

“I mean it, Merlin. And you know it, too. I can’t leave you there any longer. We need to come up with a strategy. You have to give me _something_.”

Merlin looked as if it pained him, but he merely shook his head.

Arthur groaned in frustration. Why couldn’t Merlin see that they didn’t have any other options? Morgana was never going to take Merlin off the Neo base, giving them an opportunity to rescue him. He’d stay there to rot if Arthur didn’t come for him there.

“There’s a way in! There’s _got_ to be! Cenred will have to find us a way.”

“Don’t give him away, or else we really are fucked,” Merlin reasoned. Arthur needed that—reason. For weeks, he’d been trying and failing to keep a level head. He needed Merlin to balance him out.

“I don’t care what happens to Cenred, Merlin; I care what happens to you!”

Merlin reached around and cradled Arthur’s head, his fingers shifting through the blonde hairs. “I’m fine, Arthur. See?” He plastered on a smile as if that proved his point.

And Arthur knew that was a lie. Why else would Merlin be there? _I just needed to see you_ , was the excuse he’d given. The words still chilled Arthur to the bone. They meant Morgana was affecting him in some way, and Merlin didn’t know how to fight it. 

But Arthur also knew he wouldn’t listen to a single protest—except for perhaps one: “I’m not.” 

Merlin’s fake grin faded slowly away. His fingers had gone still against Arthur’s scalp. His eyes, unblinking as they stared into Arthur’s, were apologetic. As if he was the one who should have been sorry. Arthur should have never agreed to this stupid plan to begin with.

“I don’t know how to be king without you at my side, Merlin. Everything’s falling apart. It seems everything I do is wrong.”

“No it isn’t.” Merlin’s grip on him doubled. “You’re a good king, Arthur, and you’ve a true heart. The people love you. They chose _you_ to lead them.”

“And what if I fail them?”

“You won’t.” He seemed so certain. Arthur wished he had a fraction of the faith in himself that Merlin harboured. But he didn’t, and he felt as if he were drowning. Icy water pulsed around him. 

And then Merlin said, “You mustn’t ever be afraid to be wrong, because sometimes you will be. Just know the difference between making mistakes and regrets is the ability to know yourself with every decision.”

At the moment, there was only one thing Arthur knew of himself: “I’m stronger with you here.” There was no point in trying to hide it. It was the truth, and Arthur had spent too long keeping in the things he should have said to Merlin. 

At last, Merlin dropped his act. He allowed himself to look tired, to look scared and alone. He wasn’t _fine_. 

Arthur clasped Merlin’s jaw between his hands. “Come back to me, Merlin.” 

Merlin surged forward and took Arthur into a deep kiss. Arthur collapsed into it immediately. He stroked his thumbs against Merlin’s skin, ensuring Merlin wouldn’t go anywhere. Merlin was making soft whimpering sounds as he relished every kiss. Arthur let go of his face to wrap his arms tightly around him. He pressed Merlin’s body in close, getting reacquainted with every line. 

“I have to go, Arthur,” Merlin leaned out of the kiss to hurriedly say, but he didn’t do anything to break away. “I have—.”

“Mhm,” Arthur hummed, and caught his mouth again. At the moment, he didn’t care about what magic Morgana was taking from Merlin. He just needed a little more time. 

He pressed Merlin down to the mattress and rolled on top of him. He kissed at any piece of skin he could find. 

Merlin was chanting his name, love-drunk, and for a moment Arthur forgot this was technically a dream. He wondered if that would make anything different. It certainly felt real—the taste of Merlin’s tongue, the sleekness of his skin as Arthur sucked it red, the desire budding inside of him. 

Merlin pulled at Arthur’s shirt, and Arthur struggled to get it over his head before discarding it. Long, spry fingers and heated palms warmed his torso as they explored his chest and dragged down his spine.

“I missed you,” Arthur paused long enough to meet his eyes and say.

A smile stretched Merlin’s cheeks. “I miss you, too,” he answered, almost teasingly.

Arthur’s gaze dropped to his lips.

It must have been real. Arthur decided this was more than a dream, somewhere in the middle of it all. He felt the heat coming off Merlin’s skin when he dragged his palms down his sides. He felt Merlin’s heartbeat as he held him tight, and heard every hot breath escape Merlin’s throat to tickle against him. Merlin was real, and maybe if Arthur held him tight enough, he could pull Merlin back into waking world with him. 

Merlin clung on, too, his fingers slipping against and digging into Arthur’s shoulder blades for purchase. As they crashed against each other, hungry mouths took their fill of each other until the need for breath burned at famished lungs. Arthur shared the air, and touched his forehead between Merlin’s shoulders. He wished only for Merlin to stay, and prayed Merlin’s magic was enough to make the dream come true.

It was the same magic that lit Merlin’s irises and sent tingling through his fingertips, to spread a pleasure so close to pain throughout Arthur. It burst and converged, dropping low. Arthur must have been starved of Merlin for longer than he’d thought, because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so high. And he was certain he’d never felt so at ease before. 

After, he lay on his back to catch his breath and stared up at the canopy, his hand never leaving Merlin’s. Soon, Merlin rolled to his side and draped his arm around Arthur.

“It’s about time I had a go in this bed,” he laughed. “Do you know how many times I changed these linens?”

“Twice, at most,” Arthur joked.

Merlin hummed and snuggled in closer. “I should have loved you sooner,” he mused softly. 

Arthur cupped his hand around Merlin’s shoulder. “I think I did.” 

“I think you did, too. You’re just too much of a dollophead to realise it.”

Arthur snorted a laugh as Merlin traced circles onto his skin with his fingertip. “And it’s time to wake up, dollophead,” he said, muffled against Arthur’s chest. Arthur wondered if Merlin felt his heart plummet. 

“No,” he said, determined to sleep forever if he had to.

Merlin lifted his head to meet Arthur’s eyes. “Yes. It’s morning.” He pressed a kiss to Arthur’s lips, closed-mouth but savouring. His eyes were shut tightly, dark lashes like crescent moons against his cheekbones. Arthur only knew it because his own eyes were open.

When Merlin pulled away, he forced another bright grin. “Rise and shine.” 

Arthur stomach fluttered in panic. “Merlin, no—,” he tried, but Merlin’s irises were already fading back from gold to their usual blue. 

“Merlin!” The shout was on Arthur’s lips when he jerked awake. He was alone in bed in the manor. He found he was sitting up already, and wildly searching the empty sheets beside him. They were cold.

Arthur gripped them in his fist and breathed. He was alone.


	5. Chapter 5

“Guinevere!” 

Arthur was in his office in Guildhall. Thick and fat raindrops spilled down the windows and thunder occasionally shook the floor. Lightening flashed against the black morning sky, illuminating a drop of water that fell from a leak in the ceiling and plunked into the nearly bucket below. For days, Arthur yelled to get the leaks, which seemed to be multiplying, throughout the old building, fixed; but there was nothing anyone could do until the rain stopped. 

It felt as if that day would never come.

Over a week ago, the skies over Britain had opened up and it hadn’t stopped pouring since. The seas were treacherous to sail and drivers could barely see out of their windscreens at most times, and the fighting with the Neos had come to a halt for the time being. However, the provinces swapped the skirmishes for an unwinnable battle. There were reports of flooding from all over Britain—in homes, offices, and farmland. Crops were being drowned with no hope of salvation. Animals were crowded into pens and barns, and the farmers feared disease would spread amongst them. 

Putting the rain and the thick fog that hung like a curtain to his back, Arthur tripped over the piles of loose papers and haphazardly placed folders on his desk. He shuffled through them in an agitation that only grew with each passing paper that fell on the floor—each paper that was _not_ the one he was searching for. 

He’d misplaced an agriculture report that he’d promised to forward to Simmons. He was certain he hadn’t thrown it away, despite reading it a few days ago. Or did he _actually_ read it? He couldn’t quite remember.

Regardless, he knew it was somewhere in his office. It had to be! 

“Guinevere!”

Damn it, where was she? She should have been in her office by now. Unless Lancelot was holding her up—but, damn it, he was supposed to be at the barracks training the men. Arthur only knew that because he was meant to oversee the training session later that day. Or was that tomorrow? 

Damn it. 

Who wanted to be outside in this weather, anyway?

He reached for another paper, which was difficult to grab with his cast still on. (He was told it would come off in a few more weeks, but he had half a mind to rip it off right then and there.) The motion caused a folder to slide off the desk, making the stack of papers beneath avalanche after it.

“ _Guinevere_!” 

It was not the name he wanted to be calling.

A figure appeared in the doorway, and Arthur looked up expecting to see Gwen. Instead, he found a rather attractive, dark skinned woman in a prim dress. She was holding a coffee. 

“Good morning, your majesty,” she said in chipper tones. “Are you looking for last week’s agriculture report? I’ve already sent it off to Prime Minister Simmons’ office earlier this morning. Tea? I’m told you don’t take sugar.” 

Arthur blanched, harried, confused, and insanely annoyed despite this stranger’s efficiency. 

“ _Who_ are you?” he demanded. 

Her pleasant smile remained. “Olivia Andrews, sire. You’re new assistant.”

“Assist—? _Guinevere_!”

Harassed and out of breath, Gwen appeared in the doorway, her boots squelching as she came. She still had her coat on and her purse strapped around her body. An umbrella was in her hands, but it didn’t look as if it did its job, because she was dripping a puddle onto the floor. “I could do with a moment to settle in, Arthur,” she scolded. 

He ignored it, and gestured an upward palm to Olivia. “Assistant?”

Gwen caught her breath and straightened her posture. She said kindly, “Olivia, why don’t you give me a moment to discuss matters with the king?” 

Olivia smiled back at her. “Of course, Councilwoman.” She walked further into the room and placed Arthur’s tea on the only spot of desk not covered with papers. As she left the room, she said to Gwen, “I’ll get you a tea, too, shall I? Cream and two sugars?” She closed the door softly behind her, Gwen’s thanks following her out.

Arthur blinked at the doorknob for what felt like an eternity. 

“Now, before you start—,” Gwen began to say soothingly, but it was no use. Arthur had already started.

“Who is she? I don’t need an _assistant_ , Guinevere! When was this even decided?”

Gwen let out a heavy sigh and blew one of the stray drenched curls away from her face. “Gaius and I thought it was for the best. You have more important matters to deal with than scheduling, Arthur— _and_ you need someone who ensures you get to your appointments on time.”

“Merlin does that,” he shot back.

“Merlin’s not here.” 

She hadn’t said it to wound him, but it did so nonetheless. He opened his mouth to argue. But, before he could get a word out, she rushed to say, “And, when he gets back, he’ll probably welcome it. He had his own duties to attend to as consort and advisor.”

Arthur clamped his jaw and tried to form an argument. He found none. 

Knowing she’d bested him, Gwen smiled in a placating way and stepped further into the room. “She comes very highly recommended. She worked in Commissioner Wallace’s offices before, and I think you’ll find her very efficient. Just give her a chance.”

Arthur had no idea what it was like to have an efficient assistant. In Camelot, there had been George, but that didn’t last very long because of how boring he was. Arthur couldn’t stand the sight of him after only a few days. Now, there was Ainsworth; and, despite the fact that Arthur liked him, he felt as if Ainsworth were more of a disapproving parent than a butler. Arthur went out of his way to not make a mess to avoid Ainsworth’s reaction—or, that is, lack of reaction, which was worse. He was used to an argument. He was used to a mess.

He was used to Merlin, the world’s most terrible servant. Merlin; disorganized and clumsy. Merlin; who Arthur was still convinced spent most of his time in the tavern when he wasn’t protecting the kingdom from all manner of magical threats. Merlin; his.

Arthur wasn’t sure he’d even _like_ efficient help anymore. 

Still, Gwen brought up some rather good points.

However, before Arthur could give an answer, there was a knock on the door. “Come,” he beckoned. Olivia was on the other side, tea-less this time.

“Your majesty, ma’am, forgive the interruption but we just got urgent word from Sir Leon. He’s returning to the city from patrol. They picked up a woman from Exeter. He says you’ll want to hear what she has to say.”

At once, Arthur felt the urgency of the situation. He realised that, ever since that first committee meeting Brown missed, he’d been holding his breath in anticipation of whatever plot the Chancellor had brewing.

He shared a glance with Gwen and knew she was thinking the same. 

“Bring her to us.”

A half hour later, Arthur and Gwen were led to one of the studies in Guildhall. Olivia had taken the Exeter woman to the room and gotten her food to eat and a warm blanket to dry herself with. She had also gathered Gaius and the knights. All without having to be told to do so. Arthur had to admit, he didn’t hate it. 

The woman, with blue-white hair that wasn’t normally tangled and a straight black coat that was never meant to have so much mud on it, slumped tiredly in one of armchairs of the study. A cup of tea and a saucer were rattling in her hands. Clearly, she’d been through some kind of ordeal. 

Arthur looked to Leon, who was standing close by one of the bookshelves. Off the look, he approached Arthur and Gwen and ducked his head in to whisper, “We found her not far from the city. I believe she walked all the way from Exeter, sire.”

“With what business?” Gwen asked, understanding that, whatever it was, it must have been important. 

Leon’s lips pressed together. “She said her son was taken by Chancellor Brown’s militia.” 

Arthur’s brow tightened, at first in confusion, and then in bitterness. He had a feeling he knew what this was about.

Stepping past Leon, Arthur went to the woman and sat in the chair placed across from her. 

“H—Hello, your majesty,” she said with a meek bow of her head, her hands trembling more than they had before. Arthur didn’t know if it was do to nerves, age, or something else. 

“You’ve no need to fear. You’re safe now,” he soothed, reaching out to gently take the cup from her. He placed it on the table at his side. “What is your name?” 

“Diane, majesty,” she said, never meeting his eyes despite how he fished for her gaze. 

He glanced up to Gwen to ask if she had any ideas on getting the woman to speak, but she appeared just as forlorn. Bringing his attention back to Diane, Arthur said, “I’m told you’ve come a very long way on foot. Can you tell me why?”

“My son,” she whispered. “Michael. Three weeks ago, he was taken by the militia—and they didn’t stop there. Days later, they came for his girls, and his wife.”

Arthur leaned back in his chair. He didn’t want to believe her. He wanted to give Brown the benefit of the doubt, but he was finding it difficult to do so. 

“That’s a serious accusation. Are you certain you son didn’t take his family elsewhere?” 

She shook her head and, before he even finished his sentence, said, “No, no. He would tell me. He would take me with him. I’ve been talking to his friends—and Melissa’s friends. They don’t know where they’ve gone. Most of them have turned me away! They don’t want to speak of them—like they didn’t exist! The others, I can’t locate. I think they’ve been taken, too!”

Now that they woman was more animated, she was working herself up into hysterics. Arthur held up his hands, trying to calm her. “Peace, Diane. Please, slow down. Tell me, what reason would the militia have for taking your son?”

He thought he already knew the answer.

Fear flashed in Diane’s eyes at the same moment lightning illuminated the room, and then she looked down. “I can’t say.”

Softly, Arthur pressed, “Does he practice magic?” 

The woman nodded, a tear rolling down her cheek. “He’s a good man; you have to believe me! He never uses it to commit crimes! He works in textiles, you see. Our family owns a factory. Michael’s managed it since my husband, Willard, passed. He’s always around heavy machines. One day, Sally—oh, his youngest—went to the factory with him. She was playing and got her leg caught. It would have been all right if it hadn’t been infected. All the doctors said there was nothing they could do. But then, she was fine! He used magic to save her, you see. Someone must have seen her on her feet again and put two and two together. They must have reported him! Everyone knows he’d do anything for his daughters!” 

Her tears were falling in earnest now. The story hollowed out Arthur’s chest.

“They killed him, haven’t they? And those beautiful girls?”

Arthur feared the same. 

“They’ll come for me next. Oh—I’m not a magician, your majesty! It swear!”

“It’s all right,” Arthur hushed. “You were right to come to me. I’m certain your family is well, Diane, and this is a misunderstanding.” No matter what he said, he didn’t feel it in his heart. “I give you my word, I will get to the bottom of this.” That, at least, was the truth. 

She let out a sob and seized his hand with both of hers, soft and wrinkled. “Thank you, your majesty! Oh, bless you! I didn’t mean to bring you the concerns of an old woman, but I had nowhere to turn!” 

“Your concerns are mine,” he assured, and stood up. “Olivia, find this woman a place to rest as we sort this out.” 

Olivia gave a courtesy and gingerly began shepherding Diane from the room. As they went, Diane muttered more thanks through her tears.

Once she was gone, Arthur’s jaw tightened. He looked to Gwen and Gaius. “He didn’t shut down the death camps.” His hands balled into fists at his sides. He was a moment away from seething. “He gave his word.”

“Sire, I do not believe Chancellor Brown ever meant to keep his promise,” Gaius told him, giving the hard truth.

“This could have been going on all this time, right under our noses,” Gwen agreed mournfully.

Gwaine said, “We should ride to Exeter. See what we can dig up.”

Arthur wanted nothing more than to agree. He almost gave the order to ready the cars. But then thunder rumbled, giving him a moment of pause, and he thought better of it. “No. Brown’s a part of the committee. I have to bring this to the others. Leon, send word to each of them. Have them come to Winchester at once.”

Leon bowed his head. “Sire.” With that, all of the knights filed from the room. 

“Do you think this is why Brown has withdrawn from the meetings?” Arthur asked bluntly when he, Gwen, and Gaius were alone. There was no telling how long this had been going on for. It could have been weeks, months; or Gwen could have guessed correctly and he never stopped in the first place. 

What was more, Arthur had no real proof, just the word of a mourning woman. 

“Maybe that’s part of the reason,” Gwen allowed. “But, Arthur, he stopped coming after Merlin had gone missing. Perhaps he lost faith in the provinces.”

Arthur shook his head, the truth dawning on him. “No. He _never_ had faith in _me_. Merlin’s kidnapping only gave him the reason he’d been looking for to withdraw from the union.”

Gaius appeared to think the same. He folded his hands in front of him and said, “Men like the Chancellor resent sharing power, and submitting to the will of those in a higher position than he. It has nothing to do with you, Arthur. He would have lacked loyalty to anyone in your position.”

Arthur recalled a word from some of the documentaries he’d watched in the years after his return. “He’s a dictator." 

Gaius and Gwen only shared a look. They may have not known the word, but they knew the kind.

Arthur put his hands on his hips. “We have to show him he cannot wield such power. But how?”

“I believe it is up to the committee to decide his fate,” Gaius told him, sagely raising a brow. “If you go behind their backs again, they may see you as just as bad as him.” 

Arthur let out a breath. Gaius was right, of course, but it didn’t quell Arthur’s desire to jump into action.

“Fine,” he said, running his hand through his hair and already counting the moments until the committee gathered. “Gaius, have one of your nurses look Diane over in the meantime. Ensure she isn’t injured. She’s come a very long way on foot, especially in this weather.”

He bowed his head to show he’d oblige. 

“And get her anything she needs,” he told them both. “God knows she’s been through enough.” 

However, Arthur knew her ordeal wasn’t over. He feared there was more heartache to come for Diane. Although he knew the matter was beyond hope, he prayed her family was still alive somewhere. He prayed this was, in fact, a misunderstanding.

 

///

 

“She believes Brown’s militia has taken her daughter-in-law and grandchildren, and many of their close friends, as well. She thinks she is next,” Gwen concluded her recounting of what Diane had told them hours ago. 

The committee was in full session around the Round Table, with their advisors close at hand. Aurora, Thomas, and their council filled the seats usually reserved for Brown and his cabinet. Arthur had requested their attendance at the meeting, and Gwen reasoned it was because the session concerned magic. Without Merlin present, Aurora was their main representative the magical community. 

However, Arthur did not state his reasoning explicitly. In fact, he had barely said two words since the beginning of the session. Gwen and Gaius were the ones doing most of the talking. Now, however, it was time they turned the floor to the committee members. 

Darby was the first to speak: “I think we all agree that these are troublesome accusations, Councilwoman, but what proof do we have of them?” 

“Proof?” Gwen asked, her brows crossing. She pushed down her budding irritation. “We have a woman’s testimony. I’m sure if we found other victims like her, they would give us similar accounts.”

“If we found any at all, they may be too scared to tell us much of anything.” 

Gwen turned her eyes to Arthur beseechingly. He remained in his chair, leaning back against it with his cheek resting on his fist. He offered nothing, and did not give away whether he agreed or disagreed with Darby.

Shuffling, Gwen looked back at the table at large. “I understand your wish for more evidence before accusing the Chancellor of anything, President Darby,” she said politically. “Let us discuss how we may be able to obtain such proof.”

“What do you suggest?” asked Commissioner Wallace. “Marching the army into Exeter to find it? The army that Brown funds with his province’s tax money?” 

The people of Exeter may have been afraid of Brown and his militia, but Gwen was beginning to suspect they weren’t the only ones. She looked to Simmons for support, counting on her reasoning to see them through, but she only frowned unhappily. 

“I have to agree with my fellow committee members,” she said. “Brown is part of this committee, but we have no say in his government—or its laws. And a ban on magic _is_ a law in the Exeter Republic.”

“It’s a law in many of your provinces, but you don’t go around executing magicians and their families,” Gwen pointed out.

Defensively, Darby argued, “There are many laws created after the War that we don’t follow anymore.” 

“Then, why are they still laws at all? Why not do away with them? It is our duty to do right by all the people of Britain, and not let fear dictate our actions. If we all lifted the ban on magic, it would show Brown where we stood. He would have to follow.”

Arthur continued his silence, but he was looking at Gwen with interest in his eyes.

“Or he could pull out of the committee,” the Commissioner voiced. 

Gwen scoffed, unable to hold it in. “Was it Chancellor Brown you elected as leader of this committee? For god’s sake, you’ve allied yourselves with magicians. Your king consort, who is, as we speak, putting himself in danger for the good of the country, is a magician. Are you really so afraid of losing Brown’s support that you would forsake the British people?”

No one spoke. Everyone waited for someone else to answer the question.

“Then let me bear the burden of his retribution for you,” Arthur spoke up. He stood from his chair, commanding the attention of everyone in the room. “Under the Charter, there are many laws we’ve deemed should be governed my the monarch and his or her committee. Why not let the ruling on magic be one of these?” 

Gwen held her breath, unsure what Arthur might say next. This was not a topic that sat well in his mind, but she knew it weighed heavily on his heart. 

“When I was young, my father led a crusade against those with magic,” Arthur continued, his eyes downcast and just to the right of him, where an empty chair sat. “Thousands of innocents were slaughtered under his orders. When I became king, I did nothing to correct that matter.”

And then, Arthur’s gaze lit upon those around the table, taking each in turn.

“No more,” he said definitively with a quick shake of his head.

Gwen’s lips parted. There was a time when she thought she’d never hear those words. She looked to Gaius for a reaction, and he appeared equally spellbound. They both, as with everyone in the room, awaited Arthur’s next words. 

“I propose an addition to our Charter,” he said, “that will ensure the protection and security of all those who practice magic and are loyal citizens of Britain. Across the provinces, imprisonment and death without cause will be outlawed; and any province on our shores with a ban on magic, whether those laws are enforced or not, shall lift the ban.” 

Gwen wished Merlin were present to hear this, and she knew Arthur did, too. But she also knew that, although Arthur kept Merlin in his mind and heart, this was not in his name. Arthur was doing this for his people. 

She looked to Aurora and Thomas. Aurora had a grin stretching her cheeks; Thomas had tears in his eyes. 

Around the table, there were mixed reactions. Simmons was nodding her head, for the amendment. Others seemed hesitant, such as the Commissioner and Owen. Gwen could not fault them. After all, many of the Neos’ terror attacks had taken place in their provinces. They were right to be wary, but neither of them denied the proposition outright. 

Instead, the Commissioner said, “There are groups who will opposite this, not just Brown’s militia. There are still terror organizations that are against magic.”

Gwen countered, “The Neo-Druids began as a terror organization, too. Until we show magicians they are our equals, there will always be groups like them. The anti-magic groups have never been as much as a threat as the Neos.” 

“That raises another point,” Commissioner Wallace said. “This could invite violence to the provinces. We cannot let magic have total free reign. There must be laws put into place.” 

Arthur conceded, “Just as murder and crime cannot have free reign in our society. I believe you are right, Commissioner. There should be laws put into place, but punishment should not be enacted simply because one who wishes to live in peace practices magic. There will be restrictions, as with anything—and I believe such laws should be proposed by those who understand the nature of magic.”

His hand lifted to the Druids across the table. “Aurora, I ask that you and the other chiefs of the Druid tribes that have pledged their loyalty to Winchester come up with these laws.”

Aurora appeared overjoyed. “Yes! I—Yes!”

“It would be an honour, my king,” Thomas said with a touch more composure than his daughter. 

“Good,” said Arthur, and looked back to his committee. “Then, I also propose that Chief Aurora have a seat on our committee to represent the magical community of Britain.” 

Gwen heard Aurora gasp, but she did her best to keep down any other reaction. Clearly, she understood the responsibility Arthur was awarding her with, and she did not want to seem too immature for the task.

Around the room, the committee members’ advisors spoke in hushed tones. Arthur cut them off by lifting his palm and saying, “Go back to your provinces and discuss the matter with your cabinets and advisors. We will meet again to discuss this further in a week’s time. Today, we must decide how to deal with Chancellor Brown’s injustice against the people of Exeter. I agree that we’ll need some kind of proof that these crimes have been ongoing. There may be records of the militia’s orders to seek out certain citizens.”

“Yes, but even if we did add this amendment to the Charter, Exeter is not officially a part of the union,” Simmons reasoned. “As of today, they haven’t held a referendum for it. The Chancellor is operating within the laws of his land.” 

Arthur shook his head. “He joined this committee under the condition that this inhuman treatment stop immediately.”

Gwen bit at her lower lip, recalling exactly what those conditions were. Blackmail, as Lancelot had called it. Perhaps it wasn’t the right move, after all. Still, she wondered if Arthur would make good on his promise to tell Britain that Brown’s daughter was a magician. While doing so could discredit Brown as a leader, it might also cause more harm than good—such as rebellions or revolutions in Exeter, not to mention ruining a woman’s life. 

“I’m afraid his word isn’t good enough when he has the law to back him up,” said Darby.

“Of course,” Simmons said, her tone conversational and casual, as it always was when she was about to voice a particularly brilliant idea. “If what your witness says is true, Brown doesn’t send only the offending magician to the furnaces. It means the militia gathers up everyone they can get theirs hands on—the criminal’s close friends, family. Those who do not practice magic—or, at least, not that the government can prove.” 

Gwen caught onto her train of thought at once. “Murdering non-magicians needlessly. You believe we can use that against him.” 

“Should there be any record of it,” Simmons said politically, “and should this accusation prove true. We’re in a time of war, and such actions as these can make Brown a traitor. It’s the committee’s right to step in and put an end to these war crimes.” 

Arthur jumped on the possibility. “I’ll have Olivia bring the witness Diane forth at once! She may be able to provide us with more insight.” 

“And what then?” asked the Commissioner. “Brown is still a member of this committee, and should be treated as such. Should the witness accuse him in front of us all, we should give him twenty-four hours to release any documentation of these affairs.” 

He could just as easily burn the evidence, Gwen reasoned. She longed for the days of old when they could dispatch guards to gather evidence without jumping through so many hoops. That, however, was no longer the way of the world.

“And if he refuses?” Arthur posed, his muscles tensing as he shared Gwen’s silent sentiments.

“Then, we needn’t send the military. I will use my power as Police Commissioner to gain a warrant to search his records and conduct interviews with the citizens who may have witnessed these alleged crimes firsthand.”

Arthur would send the knights, too. Of that, Gwen was certain.

With the matter decided, and the session was dismissed. As everyone left, Gwen and Gaius remained behind with Arthur. 

“I fear the Commissioner is right. The amendment you proposed could be seen as a radical one is some people’s eyes, sire. Not just anti-magic groups, but amongst many of the citizens,” Gaius said, simply playing devil’s advocate. “It may be met with backlash. Are you certain you’re willing to stand for such measures?”

“I cannot change people’s hearts so quickly with a mere signature on a decree,” Arthur told them nobly. “But I can change the law, Gaius. It may take time—a time I may never see—but the rest will follow. I must do what I can to protect all of my people.” 

Gaius gave him a soft smile of approval, and Gwen’s was much less reserved. 

“Merlin would be proud,” she told him pointedly.

Arthur dropped his demeanour and nodded into the distance. “He should be here to help the Druids in drafting the laws.”

Gwen agreed sombrely. She held her hand to his shoulder. “He is with you, Arthur,” she promised. “You’re doing the right thing.” At last, what they should have done—but what they couldn’t do—in Camelot would be a reality.

He gave her a tight smile and nodded. “I know,” he said plainly, not a hint of doubt in his eyes.

 

///

 

Surprising to no one, Chancellor Brown refused to hand over his files to the committee, thus forcing their hand.

Two days later, every employee of Brown’s administration, from the clerks to the cleaning staff, were gathered in the ground floor lobby as London’s Metropolitan Police packed up every office and desk’s files into neat brown boxes and hauled them out the door. On his way in, Lancelot heard a number of Brown’s advisors standing in the rain, shouting at the nearest officer about how the committee had gone too far and this was a violation of their rights. Most, however, remained silent and inquisitive.

Outside, the bulletin and newspaper reporters and photographers clamoured for sound bytes and footage of the investigators leaving the building. Some of them called for the Chancellor himself; although, as far as Lancelot could tell, Brown was nowhere on the property.

All the racket of the street and lower levels were muffled in the Chancellor’s private office, where Lancelot, the knights, and Wallace searched. A constable stood outside the doorway to ensure no one got in without permission. 

The office was just as elaborate as the building it was situated inside of, newly built but designed in the Victorian fashion. Panel windows on two sides of the corner room overlooked the stretch of green grounds below. A deep, polished mahogany desk stood on an ornate rug, and leather chairs were situated on either side. A small bookshelf, sparse of books and filled with military metals and an academy diploma, lined the wall behind the desk. 

Percival and Elyan sat on the floor, a stack of papers and envelops before them. They skimmed the pages before haphazardly putting them in the reject pile. Meanwhile, Gwaine and Leon were flipping through the filing cabinets for something that may help their cause. Earlier, they’d found a case of floppy disks dating back to before the War, going up until the previous week. Wallace sat at the computer on Brown’s desk and clicked through the contents of the disks, the pale blue light of the screen illuminating his sharp features.

Lancelot was crouched down beside him, rummaging through the desk’s drawers. There wasn’t much there, save for stationary, supplies, and a diary filled with appointment times and dates. Thinking he might find a suspicious appointment, Lancelot flipped through the diary. However, as he went back months and months, he found Brown spent most of his days in back to back meetings with ministers of agriculture or the press, or with generals of his militia, or other mundane appointments of government. There were some personal appointments, too, such as haircuts and, at least twice a month, _Dinner with Sharon_. The Chancellor and Sharon, who Lancelot assumed was Brown’s wife, had dinner three times the previous week. 

Lancelot blew out his lips in frustration. His eyes flickered up to the computer screen, where Wallace was currently scrolling through graphs and charts that meant very little to Lancelot. They did more to hurt his eyes than anything, and he couldn’t see how Wallace could stare at the screen for so long without going blind. 

“I think I found something,” Percival’s voice came from the other side of the room. Lancelot looked up immediately to find the man lumbering to his feet to appear over the desk. He had a pile of loose papers in his hands. As everyone crowded around, Lancelot got to his feet, too, and looked at the papers now laid out on desk. They appeared to be copies of the same bureaucracy form, with handwritten information in the blanks. Lancelot swivelled his neck to make heads or tails of it upside down. 

“What are they?” Gwaine asked, apparently unable to discern their meaning, either.

“They don’t say outright, but I think they’re kill orders,” Percival told them. He pointed to the name written in pen on the top page: Michael Richardson. It was Diane’s son. “Recognise that name?” 

“It’s signed by the Chancellor,” said Gwaine. 

“They all are,” Percival informed him.

Elyan leaned in, as if to get a better look. “The date matches, too, if Diane’s information was right.” He shuffled the pages. “How many of them are there?”

His question went unanswered, but Lancelot had his own, as he remembered the diary still in his hands. “What date was that?”

“May twelfth.”

Quickly, Lancelot flipped to that page, and ran his finger down the lined and scribbled words. He wasn’t certain what he was looking for until he got to the last line. _Dinner with Sharon_. 

“Give me another date.”

Elyan pinched his brows in question but did as he was told. “Uh—ninth of December,” he read from a random form.

Lancelot found that entry. _Dinner with Sharon_. 

“Another.”

With every date given, the same appointment corresponded. A sinking feeling weighed down Lancelot’s gut. Finally, satisfied in with his theory, he put down the diary and said, “Not only did Brown sign off on these deaths, he was present at the executions.”

There was a long pause as each of them processed the words and their implications. They looked at one another, each knowing no one would object to the accusation. Lancelot wondered if there was any evil Brown wouldn’t commit. He was just as bad as Morgana.

“We need to show this to Arthur,” Leon said. 

“Hang on, fellas, there’s somethin’ else,” Wallace said from his place at the computer. He was still looking at a colourful circle graph. He turned the screen so all of them could see it. 

From what Lancelot could tell, it was some kind of consensus. There were figures accounting for population, divided into three parts— _for, against,_ and _undecided_.

“Found a bunch of graphs and reports on this floppy. They’re poll results. Brown’s been covering it up, hiding it from the committee” 

“What is it?” Lancelot asked. 

“Exeter had a referendum. They voted to join the union.”

 

///

 

When the knights returned to Winchester, Leon called an immediate meeting in Guildhall. Gwen and Gaius met them in the hall and they gathered in Arthur’s office to await the king. It seemed like a tight squeeze in the spacious room, made so from the suffocating dread in the air. All of Arthur’s men wore drawn expressions, and Gwen swore she’d seen each of them merrier before stepping foot on the battlefield.

When Arthur arrived, he wasted no time asking, “What have you found?” 

“This,” said Leon, holding up the computer disk between his hands. “Wallace found it. There’s pertinent information about Brown’s administration on it.” 

Arthur took the disk between his hands and turned it over. Gwen peered at it over his shoulder, watching Arthur flip it from the plastic black to silver disked side. She knew it had something to do with computers, and that was the only way they could extract the information, but she certainly didn’t know how to use it. She’d been meaning to learn, once things settled down. 

Arthur, however, glared at is as if he expected the information contained in the disk to reveal itself at once.

“About the executions?” Arthur asked, giving up. 

“We found stuff for that, too,” Gwaine chimed in. 

Gwen’s brows knitted together. “Too?” she repeated, and gestured towards the object in Arthur’s hands. “Then, what’s this?”

“It shows evidence of a referendum in the Republic of Exeter, sire,” Leon told them. “Weeks ago, a vote was held. The Chancellor’s government hid the results from us.”

“And Brown knew about this?” Arthur asked, already enraged.

Gwen thought it was the wrong question. She asked, “What were the results?”

“It was close, but the people voted to join the union.”

Gwen clutched her side and let out a breath she’d been holding since the referendums began in the provinces. With Exeter’s vote, each of the provinces had decided to unite under Arthur. She looked at him now, and recalled all the long discussions they’d had in Camelot—all the dreams they dared speak only when no one else was around to hear. A united Britain. It had been a fact once, and it would be again.

She saw the reality of it press upon Arthur. The people of Britain had chosen him to be their king. He was so close to achieving all he’d strived for.

And she saw the moment he wished Merlin were there to bask in the victory, too.

“Why would he go against the will of his people?” Arthur posed to the room, and to no one at all. But Gaius answered.

“The Chancellor is intent on keeping his power, sire. I believe that is why he kept this vote a secret from the committee. He knew we would demand to know the results.”

“But the people of Exeter must be wondering how the vote turned out,” Gwen reasoned, her face darkening. “You don’t believe Brown would lie about it to the public?”

Arthur’s teeth were gritted in anger. “I wouldn’t put it passed him.”

Gwen realised she expected the same behaviour from the Chancellor.

In the modern world, the people’s will dictated the actions of the government. It was no longer kings and queens acting on their own accord, whether for their own benefit or the benefit of their kingdom. Chancellor Brown had betrayed his people, their trust, and his oath as a leader.

To Gwen, that was more than enough cause to depose him.

“Allow us time to look over these files,” Gwen told the knights. “We will bring it to the committee at once. Are Wallace’s men working to collect more evidence of Brown’s crimes?”

“They are,” said Leon. “We will alert you and the king with updates.”

“Go through Olivia,” Arthur said, and Gwen might have been pleased in any other situation. “She’ll get the information into my hands.”

Leon bowed his head, and the knights started out of the room.

Arthur, Gwen, and Gaius turned to each other once the door was closed.

“Why didn’t we see this coming sooner?” Arthur seethed. He brandished the disk, making it wobble as he shook it. It startled Gwen, thinking he might break it. She grabbed his arm and plucked the disk from his fingers for safekeeping.

“You expected better from him, as did we all. He’s a member of your committee, Arthur.”

“Not for long!”

“I believe that’s for the rest of the committee to decide,” Gaius reminded him. “We have to substantiate this evidence and make a case against him.”

“Of course,” Gwen agreed. She stared down at the disk and bit at her lower lip. “Perhaps we should call in Olivia to show us how to use this.”

“No need,” Gaius told her. He took the disk from her. “The hospital keeps much of its records on these. I have used them before.”

Gwen blanched, impressed.

Gaius continued, “We can go to my office and use the computer there.”

As the days went on, the Met reported more evidence against Brown’s administration, and a full inquiry was launched on Exeter’s government. A trial would take place in London later that month to decide Brown’s fate, and his rights to committee were forfeited.

Gwen was happy to see Aurora fill the Chancellor’s seat for good.

 

///

 

That morning, Mordred made straight for the throne room, forgoing his duty to guard Merlin. The guard currently on shift could keep his post for an hour longer, and Merlin could starve for all Mordred cared.

The business he had with Morgana was far too important.

She was at the table, in the middle of a session with her advisors when he barged in, and told them to leave he and Morgana alone. Aghast and uncertain, they looked to the queen, but she nodded her assent and the advisors shuffled out of the room. Mordred waited until he heard the doors shut behind him.

“Mordred, what’s the—?”

“Have you seen the bulletin?” he asked at once, earning himself a puzzled look. He did not wait for a verbal reply before walking up to the television and turning it on.

When the picture jumped into life, a news reporter was standing outside of Winchester’s Guildhall. She was saying, “—a new section of the Charter called the Magical Protection Act. Sources say King Arthur has proposed the law himself. Under the law, all magicians in the provinces will be granted amnesty for non-violent acts; and, despite the fact that its laws are only enforced in the Exeter Republic, the ban on magic in each of the five provinces will be officially lifted. The British Committee is said to begin deliberations on this amendment early next week.”

Morgana’s expression had gone hard. She was glaring at the screen as if she could murder the news reporter through the airwaves.

“Who knows about this?”

“Everyone,” Mordred told her ruefully. “It’s been the headline on the bulletin and in every newspaper all morning.”

Mordred never thought Arthur would pass such a law. He could not believe for a moment that he’d been the one to propose it. This could spell danger for Morgana, especially amongst the weaker of her followers. Many could turn to the provinces in hopes that the law would protect them. They would believe Arthur wasn’t the tyrant he truly was. 

“We must make everyone on this base understand that they will not be protected under this Act,” Mordred reasoned. “Arthur will see them as traitors, even if they do desert us—.”

“Does Emrys know about this?” Morgana asked suddenly, cutting him off. 

Mordred pulled his brows together. He didn’t see how that was relevant. “Emrys? Morgana, listen to me! We must contain this.”

“Does he know?” she demanded, her tone a pitch away from a yell.

He sighed, thinking it best to answer before she lost her temper. “No. He’s been locked in his room all morning.”

She stood up from the table, placed her palm on her stomach, and began to pace. She nodded in thought. “Good. We must keep it that way. Emrys is not to hear a word of this. We are too close to gaining control of him. Should he know Arthur lifted the ban on magic, we will lose him.”

How could she not see that they could not lose him because they never once had him? 

“Morgana, he _will_ find out eventually. Even if he doesn’t, his loyalty to Arthur is too great. I beg you to see this is madness.”

“How can you say that? You’ve seen what he’s done.”

“I have seen him kill what he believes to be our soldiers, as Arthur would want him to do! We have to show Arthur we aren’t frightened by his false promises of peace.” 

She stopped pacing, and turned a dangerous glare on him. “What do you suggest?” 

He hesitated, knowing she would not like his answer. After all, she didn’t like it before. 

Delicately, he said, “We have the means to kill him.”

She scoffed, and waved it away with her hand. “A waste of his power.” 

But Mordred knew it wasn’t about Merlin’s power or Morgana’s ambition—not fully. This was about revenge. Morgana wanted to break him, to have him know the pain she had suffered. To know what it meant to do horrible things, and to eventually revel in it. She wanted him to turn from Arthur so they would both know her vengeance.

Mordred wanted revenge, too, but he would rather see Merlin and Arthur dead at once. His way would see Morgana on her rightful throne sooner, even if sacrifices had to be made. Merlin’s power was one of those sacrifices. 

“At least he will not be able to use it against us!” 

“Enough, Mordred!” she shouted. “I will have no more talk of this! You are to stay away from Emrys from now on, is that clear?”

He gaped. “Morgana—!” 

“Until I can trust you not to kill him, you’re to do as I say. Do not make me put guards on you, too!” 

It silenced him at once. He continued to stare at her, his chest swarming with a mixture of disbelief and anger. Anger won over.

How could she be so blind? Even chained, stuck inside four walls, Merlin had found a way to manipulate everyone around him. He had driven a wedge between the two of them, and now Morgana held more trust in him than she did in Mordred!

Never had the weight of the sword on his hip been so great. 

Morgana collected herself and said, “Ensure Emrys remains in his quarters until news of Arthur’s Charter blows over.”

He clamped his jaw, desperately trying to hold back his thoughts. He managed to bite out, “Yes, my queen,” before bowing his head curtly and exiting the throne room. 

If Morgana would do nothing, he would take matters into his own hands. Perhaps he could not get close to Merlin, but he didn’t have to. He could still ensure Merlin’s death. An idea struck him. 

Once outside the door, he leaned into Malcolm and whispered, “Tonight, go to the weaponry and bring me the best ballistics technician we have.”

“Sir?” Malcolm questioned. 

“Arthur has bullets made from dragon’s magic,” he said. “It is time we had the same. We must melt down my sword and craft it into bullets.”

It was clear that Malcolm wanted to ask why, but he refrained. Instead, he saluted. “Yes, sir.”

“Not a word of this to the queen.”

Malcolm remained in his salute, his posture straight and his eyes forward. He nodded once.

 

///

 

Normally, not much could wake Arthur from sleep. After all, he’d slept for fifteen hundred years. But he found insomnia in Merlin’s absence. Every wave of white noise made his adrenaline pump. Every gust of wind beating against the window made him jump. He never slept too deeply, leaving him ragged throughout the days.

That night, a sound he could not immediately place woke him. It was coming from outside, and echoed against the moon and the sky as though in a dome. It sounded like a roar, long and growling. But then, as consciousness fully returned to Arthur, he recognised it for what it was. A cry, sorrowful and longing. The sound struck a chord in his heart. He felt the same cry inside of him, robbing him of sleep and sending his nerves on edge. It had been in his chest since he’d lost Merlin. If he could give his grief a voice, it would sound like this. 

Arthur got out of bed and slipped into a shirt and shoes. He found a coat and haphazardly struggled into it, cursing when his cast still didn’t fit into the armhole, as he went down the corridor and down the stairs. The field behind the manor was brisk with a chill stubbornly lingering from winter’s legacy. The moon was bright white, illuminating the forest in silver light that swallowed the sky. Clouds surrounded it, thick and black; thankfully, it wasn’t raining at the moment, but every now and again Arthur felt a drop carried on the wind hit his cheeks. Not a star sparkled through.

He pulled his coat tighter around him, ignoring the shiver that rocked his spine, and followed the sound into the tree line. It guided him through the maze of trunks, dead leaves and sodden twigs slipping beneath his feet. With each step, the wailing sound became at the same time closer and further away. It and the sound of his footfalls were the only noises in the forest. The rest was as silent as a burial.

He found Dagnija in a clearing, with the moon paling her brilliant reds and golds in a sickly way. She looked nearly as exhausted as Arthur felt. He hadn’t seen her since Merlin had been taken. He’d worried about her, and fretted over where she had been. Half of him had thought Morgana had gotten her, too. Arthur couldn’t have lost them both to the same hand.

_Not lost_ , he tried to remind himself. Merlin would come home. Arthur would bring him home.

When Dagnija saw him, she stopped crying. She was just like Merlin. Neither of them let others see their pain.

She laid down on the brush and tucked her limbs beneath her. Her neck and tail curled around her until she resembled a ball. Both sets of wings were still raised, fluttering in the breeze. She had grown even more over the weeks, and her body took up most of the clearing.

Arthur sighed, though something inside of him warmed at the sight of her. He was glad she was back. It felt like having Merlin back, or at least a piece of him. They were connected, Merlin and Dagnija. Arthur wondered if she could feel Merlin’s pain. He wondered why she was crying, but he knew the answer.

He and Dagnija were connected, too. 

He approached her and rested his good hand on her neck. The scales beneath were smooth and dry, like armour. Dagnija shifted and snorted under his touch, and he knew she was comforted, if only a little. He found he was comforted, too.

“He’ll come back, Dag,” he promised her. She gave a low, grumbled sound. 

Arthur walked around her and sat next to the place her tusks met her curled tail. He leaned his back against her, feeling her breathe. He focused on his own breath. Everything was silent but his mind.

“I miss him, too,” he heard himself say. He hadn’t meant to break the silence.

Dagnija’s wing lowered and wrapped around him. It startled him at first, until he realised what it was. The flesh was as warm as a blanket, and lighter than he’d expected. He brushed his fingers against it as it enveloped him. He thought it felt like the skin on Merlin’s back. It blocked out the chilled aired and occasional drizzle. 

And he was suddenly very tired, but not as he had been before. He did not feel strained and worn out. He felt quiet, safe. The world was very far away. Only Dagnija’s breathing remained.

He slept through the night.


	6. Chapter 6

Merlin’s mouth was trailing hot lines across Arthur’s jaw. Between them, his hands kneaded at Arthur’s chest through the fabric of his shirt. Merlin sat on his lap, straddling him, in the chair of Arthur’s office in Guildhall. Arthur couldn’t recall Merlin entering, or why he’d come. But it hardly mattered anymore. Arthur was just glad he was there. It had felt like ages since Merlin was in his arms. 

His arms, which encircled Merlin as Arthur’s palms cupped the curve of his ass. Every so often, Merlin would circle his hips, rubbing up against Arthur in _just_ the right way. Frustratingly. Maddeningly. 

Arthur caught his lips, and Merlin’s hand moved up to cup Arthur’s cheeks. He squeezed at Merlin’s ass, eliciting a faint gasp that sucked the air from Arthur’s lungs. Soon, Merlin’s thrusts became more frequent, rocking against Arthur’s torso and causing a friction in Arthur’s lap.

“Merlin,” Arthur said against Merlin’s lips. His hands roamed up to slide beneath Merlin’s shirt. One palm explored the curved expanse of his back. The other flicked at his belt. “Let me—.” 

Merlin groaned against him. The vibration plunged straight down to Arthur’s groin. “I’ll need to stand up.”

That sounded horrible, but necessary.

Quickly, Merlin got off Arthur’s lap and undid his belt buckle. His lips never left Arthur’s, and Arthur leaned forward to keep them as Merlin fought out of his jeans. When he was through, he brought his hands down and helped Arthur out of his trousers. Arthur kissed him hungrily the whole time. 

When Merlin straddled him again, they were no longer in Guildhall. They were in Arthur’s chambers in Camelot, at the desk near the stained glass windows. Arthur didn’t even notice the difference. He was too wrapped up in taking Merlin’s jacket and tunic off. He ripped the red scarf from around Merlin’s neck. And Merlin helped Arthur shuck away his own shirt. 

At last, Arthur’s fingers were able to roam Merlin’s bare skin. He pressed his palm against Merlin’s stomach and dragged it lower and lower.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered. It caused an ache in Arthur’s chest.

“Merlin.”

“ _Arthur_!”

Arthur woke up with a stiff inhale. It took him a moment to realise where he was: again in his office in Guildhall, his cheek stuck to the top page in the pile of papers on his desk. He peeled himself away and sat up in his chair, scanning the room. When he realised Merlin wasn’t there, all glimmer of the happiness he’d felt left him. 

“Arthur?” Gwen was knelt at his side, her eyes large and concerned.

“I was with Merlin,” Arthur said, his voice groggy, as though it offered some kind of excuse as to why he was sleeping at work.

Gwen’s lips pressed together to form a thin line, but she didn’t look surprised by the words. Arthur wondered how long she’d been there, and if he’d said Merlin’s name aloud while dreaming.

“What did he say? Was it urgent?” she worried, but contained herself. 

Arthur blinked, trying to understand her meaning. It wasn’t until consciousness fully crept in on him did he get it. He doubted Merlin had actually risked loaning anymore of his power to Morgana to come to Arthur just for sex, as much as Arthur would have enjoyed it. 

The Merlin in his dream must have only been a figment of his imagination.

He shook his head sombrely. He’d do anything for the real thing. 

“No, I don’t think—It wasn’t him,” Arthur admitted. “Just a dream.” 

Gwen’s expression turned compassionate. It made Arthur feel ashamed. He must have looked so pathetic.

“I’m fine,” he told her shortly, unprompted.

However, she’d learned how to read him long ago, and she knew how to deal with him in every state, especially in anger. “Arthur,” she cooed, “I know it’s difficult, but he won’t be gone forever. You have to trust him.”

“I _do_.” However, it didn’t help the fact that he’d incessantly felt short of breath ever since Merlin was gone. “But does that mean I can’t worry about the man I love?” 

“Of course, it doesn’t. But the kingdom needs you. Merlin knows this. It’s why he’s giving us this opportunity. He needs you to find your strength. We all do.”

Arthur dipped his head back against the top of the chair and stared up blankly. However, the answer to his problems wasn’t written on the ceiling.

“How?”

Without Merlin at his side, he didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t even certain he knew how to be king. He kept thinking of the advice Merlin had given him, to be true to himself. It was easier said than done, especially with a committee to answer to and a war on.

“Draw it from your love for your people,” she suggested. “And your love of him.”

At the moment, the only thing love offered was pain, and then Gwen said, “Don’t dwell on what’s troubling you, Arthur. Think of something that will help you find that strength. Think of why you fight—not just for Britain, but for Merlin as well.” She paused, and then prompted, “When did you first know you loved him?”

The question caught Arthur off guard. He wasn’t quite sure how to answer it. When had he first felt love for Merlin? It was like asking him the recall the first time he smelled the rain, or the first time he’d heard his father’s voice. It was something that had no beginning for him, and something that would have no end.

But when had he first realised it? He thought of the coin that hung in their bedroom at the manor, and recalled the warmth of the campfire on the night he’d handed it to Merlin. He recalled the astonishment in Merlin’s eyes, mixed with something else—something softer—that Arthur couldn’t place at the time. 

He’d been in love with Merlin before that night. It was the reason he’d gifted the sigil to him. He wanted Merlin to keep a piece of him, always; he wanted Merlin to have the love that Arthur never did. He wanted Merlin to have that part of his heart.

But the desire to give him that love came long before that night. 

From the day Arthur met Merlin, from the moment Merlin mouthed off to him in a way Arthur had never experienced before—something was between them. Arthur felt put in his place, in more ways than one. There was something about Merlin he couldn’t quite pinpoint, a feeling he didn’t have a name for. 

He’d thought that feeling was hatred, and then annoyance, and then a begrudging fondness. And then, one day, something more.

“I’m sure Merlin has some fantastic tale of honour and glory in battle for when he knew he loved me,” Arthur snorted derisively. His expression dwindled as he pondered his words. If he’d been speaking to anyone but Gwen, he wouldn’t have spoken at all. He was sure Merlin didn’t even know what he was about to say. 

“My story isn’t all that. It’s dull,” he said, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it. “It was a normal day, maybe three or four years after he’d arrived in Camelot. He’d been late to work in the morning—as _usual_. It made _me_ late for a meeting with my father about god knows what. He’d punished me by having me stay up all night going over reports of grain supplies in the watch forts on the northern borders of the kingdom. And I punished Merlin by giving him mindless chores to do all night so he couldn’t sleep either.”

Gwen smiled softly, finding humour in Merlin’s labour only because it had been so long ago. She was probably recalling the thousands of times Merlin must have commiserated with her about the injustice of Arthur’s treatment of him. In the early years, he may have had a point. But he really was a terrible servant, so Arthur wasn’t too apologetic. 

“It was well into the night. The whole kingdom was no doubt asleep,” Arthur remembered. “It was just the two of us awake. I was at my desk. He was at my table, polishing my armour or—something. Neither of us had said a word for hours. And suddenly, I found myself watching him. I don’t know why I’d begun to. But I . . .”

He didn’t know how to say it. He closed his eyes, and was still able to picture Merlin in that moment. He was sitting at the table, his shoulders slumped and his eyes bruised with exhaustion. His hair was askew as the tips of it were haloed in the orange firelight. Beneath the table, his boots were caked in dirt, dried and cracked, from the night before when he claimed he was out in the forest collecting herbs for Gaius. That had been the reason Merlin had been late that morning, and Arthur hadn’t realise until now that it probably wasn’t the truth.

Regardless, Merlin looked soft and warm, and Arthur was able to hear the gentle rhythm of his breath.

And it washed over Arthur how comfortable he’d become with Merlin’s presence. In fact, it didn’t even feel like the presence of another person any longer. Merlin had become an extension of himself, as much as a limb or his soul.

In that moment, it seemed as though Merlin had always been there. He hadn’t been, Arthur knew. Arthur had a wealth of memories from before he’d ever met Merlin, but suddenly he couldn’t place a single one. Merlin had always been there: in the happy memories, Arthur could picture Merlin’s smile as clear as crystal, and his laugh like a bell; in the dark memories, Merlin was simultaneously the pang in his chest and the glimmer of hope churning in his gut that things wouldn’t always be so bad. Merlin was the reason he fought in battle when the enemy pounded down the doors. When Arthur was lost and his conscious heavy, Merlin was the voice in his head urging him to do the right thing, even if he didn’t always listen.

Merlin. Always Merlin.

Merlin. Clumsy, insolent Merlin.

Who was Arthur without Merlin at his side?

“I knew . . .” 

What did he know? That night, what revelation overcame him? Surely he didn’t recognise it as love. He’d been much too stubborn for that. But he’d recognised it as something else, something wild and overpowering, something true. 

Without a limb, he’d be crippled. Without a heart, he’d be dead. Without Merlin, he’d be less than himself.

As though he’d just figured it out, he finished, “I knew that if anything ever took him away from me, I’d wage war on god himself to get him back.”

Gwen’s smile was different now, much softer and born of a sadness that ached along the same vein as happiness. He wondered what she was thinking, and he wondered if he hated him for being in love with Merlin while he was married to her, even if he’d only realised it in retrospect. 

Still, he couldn’t help the other revelation that overcame him. “I’m nothing without him, Guinevere. I’d give up the crown if he and I could only go back to that bloody run-down factory in London again.” 

“You know what he’d say to that,” Gwen said, and touched his arm gently.

“Yeah,” and it only made Arthur love him more, “I do.”

And then he remembered that his dream had been only that—a dream. The real Merlin was imprisoned by Morgana, and the Neos were still waging their war, the war that had been going on since the dawn of time. 

More than that—Arthur didn’t have the full support of his own people. It had been two weeks since they learned of Brown’s treachery, and even so, nearly half the population of Exeter voted against Arthur’s kingship.

It had been fifteen hundred years, and still Britain was exactly as it had been the last time Arthur was king.

“And look where it got him,” he said haplessly. He allowed his weakness to overcome him again. It attacked any of the hope the memory had given him. Gwen’s brows knitted together. “Look where it got any of us. We’re right back to where we started.”

“Arthur—.” 

“What’s even the point of fighting if nothing we do will matter in the end?” he blurted out. “How can we expect to make a lasting difference?”

Gwen’s expression was halfway to shock, and half way to disbelief. “You don’t mean that.” 

Of course, he didn’t mean it! It was in his blood to fight. He didn’t know how to do anything else. Even if he never saw peace, even if he never achieved it, he could never dismiss the hope that one day, _some day_ , the fighting will be over, and that his actions did _something_ to lead the world in that direction. 

But, oh, it would have been so much easier to see it as a fool’s errand. It would be so much easier to give up.

“Why not?” he demanded, trying so very hard to convince himself. “Look at what happened to Camelot. Did we not do our best to make it a peaceful and prosperous kingdom? How many lives were lost in the fight for that? Look at all the good it did! This country is even more broken now than it was then! How can we believe anything we do here matters?” 

“Of course, it matters,” she told him, her voice trembling with something akin to anger. Or perhaps it was passion. Devotion. Love. “I do not know what will happen, but all we can do is what we think is right. It is our responsibility to build a foundation for others, even if our work does not last forever.” 

Arthur scoffed. He was determined to change his own mind on the matter. Perhaps if he got Gwen change hers, then he would be able to do so himself. 

“Then what’s this destiny Merlin is always prattling on about? According to him, things will work out no matter what we do or don’t do. The future is set in stone.” 

Gwen’s shoulders dropped, and the anger faded from her face. She looked at him as though she could so clearly see something he’d missed. “Arthur,” she said, barely above a whisper, “I have seen you draw a sword from a stone.” 

He blinked. He had no argument left.

“Nothing is certain,” she went on. “I don’t know much about magic or destiny, but I do not care what Merlin believes. We have choices. We have a duty to make them.”

She was right. Of course, she was right. Arthur had never wanted it otherwise. But he also wanted the fighting to end. He wanted the hardships to be over. He wanted to turn back time and stop Mordred from ever finding the Cup of Life. He wanted it to be Merlin to tell him all the things Gwen just had.

It was his fault Merlin had been taken. It was his fault Merlin didn’t want to come home. Everything Merlin had ever gone through was his fault.

He only hoped Merlin remained stronger than him in this war. 

“I miss him, Guinevere,” he said under his voice. He brought his eyes back to her. “Tell me he isn’t giving in to Morgana. Tell me he’s fighting.” 

Gwen pressed her lips together in a line. It did nothing for to calm Arthur’s fears.

 

///

 

That morning, as every morning for the past month, Merlin was brought into the black room. He’d lost count of the number of the soldiers he’d injured or killed in all that time, and it had been long since he even noticed the way his shackles lit up like fire each time he wielded his magic. 

In fact it had been some time since he noticed much of anything at all: how long his hair had gotten, the itch of his beard as it grew in, the sharp pain and caked blood on his wrists where the skin met the iron, hunger, fear, longing, or the bruises on his arm where his guards drained the amber liquid into his veins each day. He wasn’t even certain how many days had passed since he’d last seen Arthur.

He was kept in a stupor, dazed and exhausted. It was only in the black room did his mind come into focus. It was there, he knew his purpose. He’d been placed there to kill every Neo-Druid they’d throw at him so that Arthur wouldn’t have to.

It was a sacrifice he’d make gladly.

The guards manhandled him towards the far wall of the mirrored blackness, making Merlin wince slightly. Morgana’s spell hadn’t completely healed his latest wound, a bullet to his ribs, probably by design. The gash was gone, the metal was removed, and no more blood pooled out, but he could still feel the wound inside of him. It needled at him every time he moved the wrong way.

“Stand still,” the guard ordered. “Don’t make a move.”

Merlin squared himself in preparation. He wondered how many he’d have to fend off that day.

There was a clacking, echoing sound entering the room. It reverberated along the tiles like a hollow drum. Merlin’s ears rang with it. 

Morgana entered, not pausing until she was standing directly in front of him.

Merlin blinked, not knowing why she was there. Would she be the one he’d have to fight?

The guard grabbed his arm, and Merlin instinctually jerked away. 

“I said, be still,” the guard barked. His grip was tighter than before, but Merlin reluctantly let his wrists be held up before him.

Morgana reached out and folded her hands on the cuffs. She spoke a few words of the Old Religion, and they unlocked.

Merlin’s mind blanked. This was a trick. It had to be a trick. 

She smirked up at him. “For good faith,” she told him, her voice lyrical.

“What are you doing, Morgana?” he demanded. He had to be very careful. If this was a trick, he didn’t want to fall for it.

In the back of his mind, he also knew this could be his only chance of escape. Should he take it? Or should he stay to eliminate more of Morgana’s army? He wasn’t sure what to do. 

Her expression twisted into a sneer. “I’m giving the dog back its teeth.”

She stepped back, taking the shackles with her. Merlin, rubbing the soreness from one wrist, watched Morgana and the guard walk out. The door closed behind them with a bang so final, Merlin wondered if this room was his new prison cell.

Suddenly, the air shifted. Merlin closed his eyes and followed the ripples to its source. He was ready when the first soldier materialised across the room. 

Like always, the soldier was covered head to toe in Kevlar, her face obscured by the dark tint of her helmet’s visor. She held up a gun and instantly fired. The bullet missed Merlin by a wide breadth and lodged itself into the wall. Merlin followed its path and watched the crack it formed in the tile. It shocked him, how poor this soldier’s aim was; but it shouldn’t have. All the Neos he’d faced so far seemed to lose their nerve with him.

She shouted; it was something between a battle cry and a normal cry. She pulled the trigger again with a deafening clap. She rushed forward and continued to fire. Merlin’s magic reacted before he did. All the bullets stopped at once, hovering in the air. He flicked his palm, and they reversed their direction. The soldier was flung back by the force of all that metal hitting her vest. 

She fell against the wall, unconscious. She’d survive.

Merlin didn’t have time to correct that before the thin air shuddered again. A man with a sword materialised on his right. He tasted the blade’s metal before it tore into reality.

Another shudder. Another soldier with a sword on his left.

Merlin jumped back when they became solid, their swords held at the ready. He formed two fists and swiped them through the air. As if by a magnetic pull, the two soldiers flew towards each other, both piercing the other’s stomachs in the process. 

Merlin had made up his mind. He had to escape. He had to get back to Arthur.

His magic was free now. He was free.

And he was just warming up.

So was Morgana. 

More soldiers were materialising around him—at least half a dozen. They appeared in the room with a metaphysical gust of wind that pulled Merlin in all directions. When it settled, a circle had been formed around him. Each adversary was holding a weapon—swords, blades, and a mace—in shaking hands. 

They were scared of him. Good.

They charged forward. 

The soldiers swept their blades wildly through the air with both fists, their arms stretched out far away from their bodies. They moved desperately, frantically, as if their eyes were closed tight behind their helmets. 

They were so easy to take out. They all fell in no time. 

Just as the last had fallen to his knees, scratching at his stomach as a fire burned him on the inside, another group was appearing.

Merlin thought he’d skip the theatrics. He sent out a burst of magic that overwhelmed the room. As the air swirled in a black mass, Merlin tugged at it. Morgana’s magic pushed the soldiers forward, and Merlin pushed them back.

It was ten soldiers this time, their atoms flying through the air. That was when they were at their weakest.

Merlin scattered them.

They materialised into an explosion of blood and bone that made the black tiles wet. It painted the bodies scattered on the floor. It stuck to Merlin’s cheeks, and tangled in his hair. He looked up at the naked light bulb hanging above his head, and wondered how he must have looked. 

There was something else in the air now, some tingle. Someone was holding their breath—someone floors above him.

Morgana.

He looked to the corner of the room, and stared into the dead eye of the CCTV camera. As his breath came out in pants, he felt her breathing, too.

His eyes glowed, and the camera stopped recording. 

He was getting out of there. He was going home.

He’d kill everyone on the Neo base if they got in his way. 

Merlin spun towards the door and burst them open with a wave of his hand. He was halfway to them when something pierced through the back of his shoulder. It was a blinding, searing pain. At the same moment, he went numb and felt like he was on fire. He didn’t realise he’d yelped until the shout echoed back to him. 

It was the first soldier, the one he’d incapacitated. He hadn’t noticed her come to. She’d picked up a dagger and stuck it into him. She tore it out it him, gripping it in her bloody fist, and tried to drive it into him again.

Fury shook through him. She would _not_ stand in his way of Arthur. No one would. 

He shouted again, his irises burning. She was flung against the wall again, dropping the knife in the process. She crumpled to the floor, tried to push herself up, and failed. Merlin didn’t have time for this. Morgana and her guards were on their way. He needed to kill this soldier now.

He hovered over her and raised his hand.

“No!” she cried. It was muffled by her helmet. She tore it off her head and threw it away with a clamour. “Please, no! They said they’d kill my sister if I didn’t fight you!” She was crying, tears streaming down her filthy cheeks. She was small and weak and terrified.

Merlin froze. He knew this woman. He remembered her face. She had been one of Morgana’s slaves. She’d served him on the night Morgana invited him to dine with her in the throne room. 

Then, he recalled the rest of the soldiers throughout the weeks, and they way they’d fought: their shaking hands, their unsure and untrained movements, their poor aim.

He no longer felt numb. His chest caved in and, when the air swam around him, it was because of vertigo.

They weren’t soldiers. 

They were slaves.

Merlin staggered back, getting as far away from the woman as possible. He was gasping, shuddering so fully he couldn’t regain control of his body. His eyes were wide with horror, and fixed on the woman before him.

Until the back of his foot hit something.

A body. 

He looked around the room at the corpses, at the scattered blood and bone. He felt the grime sticking to his skin.

_What have I done what have I done what have I_

His spine rocked and his skin prickled with a chill as he realised _exactly_ what he had done.

His eyes locked back on the woman, and something inside of him kicked into motion. He had to get her out of there. He was just about to move towards her when a bang slammed through the room. It stopped Merlin’s heart. 

The woman had been shot in the temple. Everything that made her human splattered on the wall next to her.

“ _No_!”

The guard that had brought him into the room was standing in the doorway, lowering his gun. Merlin’s glare burned into him.

And suddenly he was calm. He felt a storm brewing inside of him—silent and grey, a subdued world turning in a breeze. Nothing was quite real anymore. 

He’d felt the same way on the day Aithusa died.

At once, he knew with perfectly clarity how that guard was going to die.

His eyes glowed. The guard sucked in a breath like he’d just been punched. He didn’t let it out again. He began to wobble. Slowly, his skin started to redden and bubble. 

Merlin was vaguely aware of more guards flooding into the room, Malcolm among them. Morgana was there, too. He felt her. 

“Stop him!” Malcolm shouted, sounding very far away.

Morgana’s voice was as clear as a bell. “No, let him.”

Merlin hardly processed the meaning of her words.

He never raised his palm. He never lifted a finger. He kept staring unblinkingly at the guard before him as his flesh began to peel in on itself, like the muscles underneath were devouring it. He was screaming in a way that was too loud to be real. He tried to fight against it. He clawed at himself, trying to pull the skin back into place. 

He dropped to the floor, squirming and thrashing like a worm on a hook. A red and black mirror was pooling around him in every direction, slinking slowly out until its waves broke against the wall. 

Finally, when he wore all his soft insides on the outside, he stopped moving.

“Restrain him,” Morgana called, glee in her voice. 

Immediately, all weapons were pointed at Merlin. Later, he recalled the bone-deep fear in the Neos’ eyes. Later, it chilled Merlin to bone. In the moment, he did nothing.

He let two soldiers grab him as quickly as they could and clasp his cuffs back around his wrists. They withdrew and retreated as if they’d touched flames. 

Again, Merlin was powerless, and yet their weapons were still drawn on him. 

His eyes languidly found Morgana. She was delighted. There was no other word for it.

Merlin remembered himself. He let out something between a gasp and a sob as Emrys faded away. He found the slave woman along the walls and gawked at the bullet wound in her head, at her lifeless eyes. And then his gaze fell to the guard that had killed her—or, to the seeping ooze that was left of him. Merlin’s stomach lurched when he realised what he’d done, and that he didn’t regret it.

“Leave us,” he heard Morgana say. 

“My queen, I don’t think it’s safe to be alone with—,” Malcolm began to protest.

Morgana held up her hand to silence him. “I said,” she told him dangerously, “leave us.”

Malcolm and the other guards bowed their heads and exited the room. The doors boomed closed, the noise rattling through Merlin’s chest. All sound died away and the single bulb of light hanging above seemed to get swallowed by the immense blackness of the room. All that remained was Morgana, the sound of her breath, the beating of her heart, and the twinge of her magic seeking his out. 

“You’ve done well, Emrys,” she said, and the darkness consumed her words, too.

“They were slaves.” There were tears in Merlin’s eyes. They made his vision swim. “They were all slaves. You . . .” He rattled his head quickly, his jaw going limp as he search for any molecule of air that didn’t taste like blood. “I . . . I didn’t see it.” 

He ran his hands down his face.

How could he have been so stupid? How could he really think Morgana would have sacrificed her own soldiers? How could he not have _seen_? 

He tried to blame the drug in his system, but it felt like a poor excuse. He should have felt their fear, their helplessness. He should have sensed they practiced no magic. 

He should have known.

All he had seen was the enemy, a thing that needed killing. He never even thought twice.

“It doesn’t matter,” Morgana whispered, and rage lit from the heated ash in his chest. It sprang up quickly inside of him. 

“Of course, it—!”

“Whether they were magicians or not, it was never a fair fight and you know it, Emrys. And yet, you killed them anyway. And they kept coming, and you kept killing, one by one. You never once hesitated.” 

Merlin ground his teeth. His eyes, still lined with tears, bore hatefully into her. He had half a mind to carve her up with them. He didn’t know what stopped him.

She gave a smile, such a breathless thing, and stepped forward over the blood and carcasses. “And what killings they were, Emrys. How you must have enjoyed yourself.” 

“No,” he argued, disgusted. Although, he couldn’t decide what he was disgusted by: the suggestion, or himself.

“I must say, the way you killed my guard—,” she looked to the putrid flesh not far from her feet. “Well, I cannot say you hadn’t the right to be angry after what he did.” 

When Merlin breathed in, his breath tripped with a sob. The guard deserved what he got, yes; but Merlin wondered how he might have reacted without the haze the Lapis trapped him in. He wondered if that mattered, or if he’d still feel the same rage he felt now. 

“After what _you_ did,” Merlin told her, his voice thick and cracked. “You did this to them, Morgana.” 

She quirked a brow, humoured. “Then, why not kill me, too?”

He froze. He felt tears drop from his eyes and run down his nose. They were warm and burning and cleaned the grime off his skin. 

“Come, Emrys. You must have thought of it. After all, you’ve done it before.” She opened her arms, inviting him. “Kill me now.” 

This was a trick, he told himself, amongst other excuses. 

“Stop it.”

She walked closer to him. 

“Strike me down, Emrys. You have the power.” 

“Enough, Morgana.”

“We’re all alone. Kill me.”

“ _No_!” The metal on his wrists glowed with his irises, and all the bodies littering the floor slammed against the walls. The slave woman’s corpse rolled; the guard’s organs splattered.

The word echoed back to him. It shook his spine. He realised that couldn’t kill her. Something in his chest wouldn’t let him. 

She knew it, too, because her smile returned. It slithered like a snake. 

“You can’t,” she said. “Because you know we’re the same.”

It was very hard to find oxygen again. It was making him weak, lightheaded. His legs wanted to collapse beneath him. His insides felt scooped out, laid on the floor in front of him. 

“I know what it means to be hated, to hate yourself.”

The drug was burning out of his system. Distantly, he thought he needed another boost of it.

“I know what it means to be shackled, imprisoned.”

He felt raw. 

“All your anger, all your grief.” She drew closer still, and placed her hand on his arm. For once, he still not draw away from her. Her touch didn’t chill him, but quite the opposite. It felt nice—the contact, the connection. “I feel it, too.” 

Her eyes bore into his, and at once he saw her laid bare—all her pain and suffering, all her heartache. She had lost so much. It had been his fault. He could have helped her. He could have told her of his magic. They could have found a better way to help their kind—together. 

All his long buried regrets flooded to the surface, and his face crumpled.

“There is still time to fix it, Emrys,” she told him soothingly, and he wanted to believe her. She spoke with such passion. “To make sure no one has to be in chains as we were. To know freedom ourselves! We do not need to harbour these feelings anymore. We do not need to answer to a world that sees us as monsters. We have the power to fix it. Have we not been given this second chance?”

At his side, her hand slipped into his, and he let her take it. He closed his eyes into the touch, feeling the weight of his lashes ease.

“All your long years, you’ve answered to a destiny that has brought you only suffering. Free your magic, Emrys. It will show us the way to a better world—for you, me, everyone. They will follow us, together. I can fix you, Emrys.”

She gathered him into her, resting her chin on his shoulder. It had been so long since she’d embraced him. He’d forgotten what that was like—to have her so close. The memory of it flooded back to him. They had been children then, innocent unbroken dreamers. And then it all went wrong.

Had things not been brighter when they were on the same side? Had they not made a good team? Together, they had achieved much, and done good things. Merlin wanted that again. 

He didn’t want to be this mangled, fragile thing anymore, prone to rage and blindly following his destiny to evil acts. He used to question destiny’s plan. He used to try to find a better way. When he failed, he thought it was better to follow the path set before him. He was convinced things would work out if he did as he was told. 

But did they? No. So much had still gone wrong. His destiny was flawed, and he did not even know who had sent him on this path and why. 

It was time to be his own creator. It was time to forge his own path.

Why shouldn’t Morgana be a part of that?

He blinked his eyes open, seeing the massacre he’d inflicted. He didn’t want to be a monster anymore.

“We can fix one another,” she promised into his hair.

He let out a rattling sigh, and realised his arms were around her waist.

 

///

 

When Emrys was taken back to his prison, Morgana retreated to the throne room, her spirits lifting with every step she took. At last, her victory was in hand. Emrys saw the value in their partnership. She was confident he would choose to join with her.

She found Mordred waiting for her, and he gave a quick bow when she entered. His face was stern, but she hardly noticed. Her heart was beating in quick tandem, and her cheeks cracked into a smile. For the first time in a long time, she felt as if all were the way it was meant to be.

Or, at least, it would be very soon. Once she was on the throne of Britain. Once Emrys helped her claim that throne.

“Did you see?” she called to Mordred, thrilled and exuberant. “Oh, Mordred, I must admit—I doubted we would ever reach this day. But you saw him, didn’t you?” 

Mordred’s lips pressed into a thin line, looking as if he hated to kill her mood. “I saw him kill one of our guards.”

She waved it away. “It doesn’t matter who he was. What matters is _how_ Emrys did it! We brought out his anger, Mordred. All of his pain and vulnerability is at the surface now, ready to be exploited.” And exploit it, she would. Now that he was in such a state, she would show him nothing but kindness and friendship. He would warm to her. He had already begun.

She could see his desperation. He wanted so badly to belong, to find a home. Something in her chest ached at that, recognising his pain. She desired such things, too. It’s what drove her to build a better world. Uther and Arthur took so much from her, and Arthur would continue to take. But now, she could put an end to it. With Emrys’ power, it was all possible.

“There is no coming back from what he did,” she said happily, “and he knows it was all his doing. We put him in there, yes, but we did not tell him to kill in such sadistic ways.” She nodded, certain of herself. She was elated by the confidence. “He knows now what he is, and what his power can do. It is up to us to show him a place at our side.”

Of course, Mordred would see that. He had witnessed Emrys’ actions, and could not deny them. She wanted him to admit he’d been wrong, that he was sorry, that he should not have doubted her.

Still, he sighed and said, “What happens when he turns his anger on you?”

Morgana did not allow the negativity in. “He won’t,” she explained, her smile doubling as warmth spread through her. She could still feel Emrys’ embrace, so like it had been when they were young. “He knows I am the only one who could ever understand him. Not Arthur. No one. Just me.”

Mordred stayed quiet, his eyes narrowing into slits.

Frustration mounted in Morgana. She could feel her mood souring. “How can you still disapprove?”

“I only worry for your safety,” he told her. Of that, she had no doubt, and she loved him for it. Still, she wished he trusted her more. She needed his support. These past weeks had been difficult without it.

“You said he believes you understand him,” he went on.

“As I do,” she insisted.

“That means you believe he understands _you_.”

She didn’t see how that held any relevance. If anything, it would only strengthen Emrys’ affections towards her in the days ahead. And, perhaps, she revelled in having someone who was her peer. Mordred understood oppression just as much as any magician, but he did not know what it meant to be frightened of himself, to be made to believe that everything that made him up was a monstrous thing. He did not know what it meant to be utterly alone. 

Emrys did. Emrys knew it far before Morgana did. The fact that he allowed her to suffer for so long as he did when he could have told her of his magic instead still cut a gash in her heart, but she hoped it would heal very soon. Perhaps she could learn to forgive him. 

“What does—?”

He interrupted, “I just want to make sure you know he’s still our enemy, Morgana. He cannot be trusted.”

Her brows knitted together in offence. Could he see how hard she’d been working to change that?

“I want to ensure you only require his magic—to dethrone Arthur.” He stepped closer, still assessing her. “That is still the goal, is it not, Morgana? You were not hoping to rekindle your friendship with him?” 

She scoffed, despite her heart dropping into her stomach. “Of course, that is still my goal. It always has been. Emrys is not my _friend_ , Mordred; he is my servant. His magic is my tool, and all I require of him. And now, it is mine. I will sit on the throne, and Emrys will live the rest of his life as my dog, not Arthur’s. I will make them both pay. It has already begun.” 

She thought of Emrys, who was probably back in his locked room by now, letting the Lapis drain from his system until it was time for another fix. She would keep him subdued with the drug—at least, until he no longer needed it to be loyal to her.

She wished to return to her residence to be with him, to continue luring him into her snare. But perhaps it was better to give him some time to process all that had happened. She was certain he would feel the same as she did about their alliance. 

It was their destiny, after all; and he was no longer her doom. They would be Arthur’s doom together.

“He will give us his answer shortly. He will choose us—his own kind—and you will see how wrong you are." 

As certain as she was, Mordred remained unconvinced, but she nodded and pushed a smile. “I hope that’s true, Morgana.”

“Mordred,” she said soothingly, stepping forward and cupping his cheek in her hand. “Your concern touches me, but you will see it is no longer necessary. We have our victory.”

“Not yet.”

“But soon. You will see.” 

His smile grew warmer, and he nodded against her hand. She felt better for it, and released him. 

“Get some rest,” she told him. “Long days are coming before paradise.” 

He bid her goodnight and left the throne room, closing the door gently behind him. Morgana sighed happily, optimistic that Mordred would come around once Emrys pledged himself to their cause. 

And then her smile dropped as she remembered what he’d said about Emrys’ friendship. It had been so long since Morgana knew it; she could not recall what it felt like to trust him. But then she thought of the contentedness she’d felt in his embrace. It had felt like a promise of the future, and a ghost of the past.

She could not allow herself to feel such weakness—and yet, maybe it didn’t have to be a weakness. Maybe, in time, friendship would come again. There would be no lies between them, no secrets or animosity. Only equality. Only understanding.

She wondered how that might feel.

 

///

 

As soon as the door closed behind Mordred, his fake smile fell. His eyes turned cold once more, and he turned his head to Malcolm standing at his post.

“How soon until the bullets are ready?”

Malcolm glanced at the door, making sure it was shut fully. “I’ll speak to the technician tonight. Last I checked, she was trying to figure out a way to melt the sword down while keeping its magical properties.”

“See that she gets it right—and quickly,” Mordred demanded, not letting his nervousness to the surface, “before the queen gets herself killed.”

 

///

 

That night, Merlin ebbed into a fitful sleep. He did not dream, but he _saw_. He saw everything. It was as it had been when he’d first taken on the Crystals’ powers, but tenfold. He saw the oceans part and the continents rise; he saw volcanoes sputter and go dormant, and mountains grow their first saplings; he saw the creatures of the world live and die and be born again. He saw it end: a barren world frozen under white, too-weak light. He saw everything in between: kings and gods. 

It passed him by. He forgot it all.

And then he was running, his shoes kicking up fresh spring grass and his brow growing moist in the new heat of the sun. He was getting out of breath. A stitch grew in his side, but he pressed on.

“Aaron! Aaron, get back here!” 

The young brunette boy he was chasing careened forward on the lawn, his long limbs flying about like a fawn as he went. His laughter wasn’t as quick as he, and fell behind to keep in pace with Merlin. Suddenly, a new figure jumped out from behind a tree just as the boy passed it. Lancelot grabbed Aaron by the waist and tossed him over his shoulder. 

Aaron squirmed in a half-hearted attempt to escape.

“Now, now, little prince, I think your father is after you,” Lancelot was saying as Merlin slowed to a stop in front of them.

“Thank you,” Merlin panted, or at least he tried to. It came out too breathily. He bent over and put his hands on his knees. 

Lancelot was laughing. “Your age is catching up to you, my friend.” 

Merlin shot him a glare before standing up straight. 

If Lancelot was there, it meant training for the day was finished. Aaron knew it, too. “Where’s Father?” he asked, and wiggled as he tried to lift his face up from behind Lancelot’s back.

Lancelot hefted him to the grass and tousled the mop of his hair. “Inside. He’ll be out shortly.”

Merlin looked at the manor, casting his eyes to every window in attempt to find Arthur inside. He had no such luck. Merlin often wondered why training was still necessary. 

“Where are the ladies?” Lancelot then asked, regaining Merlin’s attention.

Merlin nodded to the tree line of the forest. “Gwen’s telling them stories again.” Stories of Camelot. It was the children’s favourite bedtime tale. 

“Race you!” Aaron called, and shot off again.

Merlin groaned and shared an exasperated look with Lancelot before following. They jogged until they reached the three women sitting in the shade on a blanket. Sitting closest to the forest was a girl of thirteen with her chin raised in perfect posture. She had all of Arthur’s genes, from the golden hair to the strong jaw, and possessed every inch of the Pendragon disposition. Next to Gwen, a caramel-skinned girl with dark eyes hung onto her mother’s every word. She was two years older than Aaron, and two younger than Ygritte; and constantly put in the middle of the siblings’ arguments.

Aaron ran straight up to her. “Emma! I like your dress,” he interrupted Gwen’s story. “I bet I can make something to match it!” Eagerly, he clapped his hands together and his eyes light up in gold. When he parted his hands, out poured dozens of blueberries that scattered onto the blanket.

Aaron looked glum. “Whoops.” 

“Great! Now the birds will come,” Ygritte complained. “She doesn’t want your stupid blueberries, Aaron!” 

“It was supposed to be a lily,” the boy said, his lip quivering. 

“Ygritte, apologise to your brother,” Gwen scolded before Merlin got the chance.

Ygritte wrinkled her nose in distaste. “No!”

“Ygritte,” Merlin warned. 

“It’s okay. I like blueberries,” Emma tried, and Aaron lit up because of it.

“A lily would match her dress better,” Ygritte said. She fisted one hand and spoke a few words in an ancient tongue. A perfect blue lily sat in her palm when she opened it, and she handed it to Emma. “Here,” she said boastfully, her eyes on her brother. 

“No fair!” Aaron stomped his little foot on the grass, barely making a thud. “Daddy, tell Gramps to stop letting _her_ borrow _my_ books.” 

Yes, maybe Aaron had some Pendragon in him, too.

“They’re not _your_ books! They’re Gramps’, and besides—he likes me better, anyway.” 

Merlin was certain Gaius had never let on such a thing. “Ygritte—.” 

“Ygritte, enough,” came a voice from behind him. 

“Father!” both children exclaimed at the same time, and jumped up. Merlin looked over his shoulder to find Arthur, the sun still catching every blonde strand to illuminate it like a crown. He was still as beautiful as the day he took the throne, still as strong, still as fit, even with all the years passed. Merlin watched him lift up Aaron by the arms and rest him on his hip. Ygritte walked in front of him. Both chattered on about what they had gotten up to that morning at once, and Arthur acted amazed and impressed, as though he could understand the dissonance.

“Lunch is ready,” Arthur reported when he reached the rest of the group.

“Good,” said Gwen, standing up and wiping off the front of her blouse. “I’m starved.” Meanwhile, Emma stood next to her father and wrapped her arms around his waist. Lancelot rested his chin on the top of his daughter’s head. 

“Me, too,” said Ygritte.

“Hang on, have you done your assignments first?” Merlin asked, raising his brows. 

She rolled her eyes, and he knew the answer.

“No!” Aaron spelled it out, nearly shouting it into his sister’s face.

“Shut up! Have _you_?” she shot back.

“Don’t tell your brother to shut up,” Arthur said.

Merlin told his children, “Miss Maggie won’t be happy if you don’t have them done.”

“Miss Maggie’s never happy,” Aaron said, and Merlin bit back a laugh. Arthur wasn’t as good at hiding his amusement. He let out a snort.

“Do your homework after lunch,” Merlin said after giving Arthur a scolding look.

“What?” Aaron moaned. 

“It’s Saturday!” Ygritted groaned. She turned to Arthur. “I’ll talk to you. You’re more reasonable.”

“He’s more of a pushover,” Merlin corrected.

“I don’t see the difference.” She rolled her eyes again. “It’s not _my_ fault you don’t remember what it’s like to be young. You’re like—a thousand years old!”

Merlin pulled a mock-offended face. “Give me _some_ credit! I’m older than _that_!”

“We’ll make sure they do their assignments,” Gwen promised, laughter on her tone, as she looked to Lancelot for back up.

He pulled a stoic face and said to Emma, “Yes. That means you, too.” But everyone present knew full well she’d already done hers.

Arthur put Aaron down, and he trotted after Gwen, Lancelot, and the girls back towards the manor.

“I worry about her,” Arthur said, his eyes on Ygritte. “She hasn’t the right manner to be queen some day.” 

“Oh, I don’t know. I think she’ll grow up,” Merlin said fondly. “I seem to remember a young prince with a bad attitude.”

Arthur shot him a look. “Shut up, Merlin.” Then, his eyes dragged up, locking on something on Merlin’s head. He reached into Merlin’s hair and plucked out a strand. 

“Ow!”

Between his thumb and forefinger, Arthur twirled a silver hair. He was grinning madly. “Another one?” he teased.

“It’s the kids,” Merlin said, swatting it away, “with their constant bickering.” 

“They’ve learned from their parents.”

“They certainly have.” 

Arthur took another long look at Merlin, the glint in his eyes dulling and his grin fading. Merlin knew that look. Arthur had given it many times as the years wore on. “Merlin—,” he began.

Merlin didn’t want to hear it today. “Don’t.”

“But what if what you did—?”

“You know what Kilgharrah said. And my father, and all the mystics and priests we could find. The immortality—.”

“But they don’t know for certain.” 

Merlin pushed a weak grin. “Well, ours is a rare case.”

“Yes,” Arthur huffed. “That’s our family. A bunch of rare cases.”

Merlin oriented himself to Arthur and looked at him hard. “We don’t know what the future will bring. Like we say, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” 

Arthur dropped his shouldered sombrely. “But what if only one of makes it to the other side?”

_No_. Merlin wasn’t going to lose him again. He wrapped his fingers around Arthur’s wrist and stole a kiss. When it broke, he said, “Where you go, I go. That was the deal, remember?” 

Arthur pressed his lips together, still savouring the kiss. He nodded gently.

“Where you go, I go,” he echoed, and the promise was made new.

But, as soon as the words passed his lips, Arthur began to fade. The touch of his skin turned to nothing, only air, and the bright spring sun dimmed in the sky. The peace Merlin had felt washed away, bringing back the sorrow and regret that plagued his waking mind. His stomach twisted until he felt sick.

Merlin blinked, trying to regain the image. Trying to bring back his happiness.

It was only when his eyes adjusted to the lowlight, did he realise that the sun hadn’t faded at all. He was no longer in the manor’s back garden, but somewhere else. Somewhere he hadn’t been in a very long time. 

Somewhere that no longer existed, except for inside of him.

He stood in a cavern. All around him, blue light painted the cave walls. The air was thin and loose, cold and damp on his skin, and smelt sickly-sweet and brackish. Blue crystals hung from the cavern’s ceiling and jutted like stalagmites from the rocks all around. 

The Crystal Cave. Merlin knew this must have been a memory long forgotten.

And then, from the pool of bright light on the opposite side of the cave, a figure emerged. The man was merely an outline at first. As he moved forward, Merlin squinted to get a better look at him and he realised who it was. He wore his long brown robes; his short, white beard was as clean as snow and his eyes sparkled the same blue as the Crystals. 

“Taliesin?” Merlin marvelled, and knew at once that this vision was not a memory of the past or future. The old sorcerer had come to him. But why? Was he there to punish Merlin, to take back from him the power he’d given? 

Perhaps it was for the best. Merlin should not possess such pure magic, not when his heart was corrupt. 

He shook his head, and was equal parts fearful and relieved to see Taliesin. “I thought you’d gone.” 

“Not gone, Emrys,” Taliesin said. “I can never truly leave you. I am as much a part of you as you are yourself.” 

Merlin didn’t understand. Was Taliesin a guardian, like Balinor and Freya had been? Merlin had never seen him. Was he a silent watcher?

“You’re the keeper of the Crystals,” Merlin told him, trying to make sense of Taliesin’s meaning. Did he see the world as Merlin had through the Crystals? Did he walk side by side with all lives, not just Merlin’s? Was he a part of everyone? Merlin could not fathom out any other meaning. 

But then Taliesin said, “I was never their keeper, Emrys. I am merely a memory of the past as seen through the Crystals. Your past.”

Merlin was tired of riddles. They were all he’d gotten since the day he was born. Whatever Taliesin had come to him for, Merlin wished he’d just get on with it. Anger burned hot and fast through him.

“I don’t know what you mean! What do you want from me? Do you want the power of the Crystals back? Take it! It’s caused nothing but trouble! In fact, take all of my magic!” 

He slumped, suddenly exhausted. He looked down at his hands. How had such power been placed within him? It was better off with another. It was better off with someone who could defeat Morgana and fulfil Arthur’s destiny, not with him—the twisted, evil thing that he was.

His vision swam and pressure built in his temples. “I don’t deserve it,” he said, his voice thick.

For a long time, Taliesin said nothing. He only surveyed Merlin, his expression neutral. Merlin felt suddenly as if he were looking in a mirror. 

At last, Taliesin said, “Why do you think you don’t deserve it, when you do not know who you are? You’ve forgotten.” 

Merlin sniffed. He hadn’t forgotten. He’d been living in a fantasy of who he wanted to be for so long. He’d only just realised who he really was. Still, he begged for another answer: “Then who am I?" 

“You are the present,” was the answer. “As I am the past.” 

“What past?” 

Taliesin stepped a little closer, but it seemed as though he’d moved further away. “When the world was new and when the Old Religion ruled the land, when the seas swallowed whole continents as though they’d never been there at all. I was a king, and a druid.”

Merlin’s brows pinched together as he listened. “You were king of the druids?” 

“There was once a time when those with magic and those without lived together, a time that may come again.”

Merlin nearly smiled. It was a nice thought, but he wasn’t sure if he believed it anymore. It was a fairytale of the past, and a dream for a future that would never come. How could it? He’d failed. Again.

“I was a sorcerer, yes, and known as the most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth at the time; but I was not a king of sorcerers alone. I was High King of the Britons,” Taliesin said. Merlin’s eyes snapped to him, and he was spellbound. He watched Taliesin as though seeing him for the first time. “The Round Table you once found, all those years ago, in the castle of the ancient kings was mine. It belonged in my court.”

“You were one of the kings of old?” Merlin gaped.

Taliesin bowed his head in a nod. “I was their leader. Together, we built a land of peace and prosperity. But we knew a time would come when darkness would overtake the world, and reign for thousands of years. We could not let our people suffer such a fate, so we devised a plan.”

Merlin hung on to every word. For the first time in months, he felt his heart in his chest—still beating, still fighting, though broken by his own design. 

The ancient king went on, “We knew there would be a time when the darkness would become too great, and the world would have to be led back towards the peace it once enjoyed. I gave myself to that cause. When I died, I committed my soul to the physical world through this—.” From his robe, he produced a large metal coin. His eyes burned amber, and it floated above his palm. The face of the coin flashed in the blue glow of the Crystals, revealing the icon of a sparrow. 

Merlin’s breath caught. 

The coin landed gently down on Taliesin’s palm, and he put it away once more. 

“It was the symbol of my reign. The very same coin you have cherished for so long. The coin Arthur had once entrusted to you,” Taliesin explained. “It survived thousands of years after my death, passing down through the generations, getting lost in war and strife hundreds of times only to be found again. The druids remembered my sacrifice through prophecy and prayer, rather than fact or history. Countless families have used this coin as their sigil, thinking it brought them good fortune; but, in the end, each fell—until my soul was needed in the world again, until it found a suitable host.”

Merlin knew who it was. Taliesin didn’t need to tell him. A faint spark of pride was struck like a match in his heart, only to quickly be snuffed out. It was all Merlin could feel anymore.

“Arthur,” he whispered.

Taliesin nodded. “Yes, Arthur,” he confirmed, but then he said something that surprised Merlin: “And you.”

“What?”

“I have told you my soul was locked away in the coin for centuries,” Taliesin said. “As the Old Religion faded, so did the magic that bound it together. It fractured into two parts, each taking with it an aspect of myself. One part became a great king; the other, a great sorcerer.” 

Merlin felt his limbs shaking. His eyes were welling again. Immediately, he knew not to deny Taliesin’s words. He knew them to be true, somehow; as if it suddenly answered all the questions he’d sought about who he was and why he was and why destiny had picked him. 

“Me?”

For the first time, Taliesin smiled. It was a soft thing, barely there, but it warmed Merlin’s chest. He’d forgotten what that felt like: warmth.

“It is the reason your magic is drawn to Arthur. Why do you think you can feel Arthur’s presence, even now when he is so far away? Why do you think you can walk in his dreams and inhabit his consciousness? Why else would the Fisher King, a member of my court, give you the gift of Avalon’s waters, even though he had been waiting for the Once and Future King?”

“That is Arthur,” Merlin said thickly. He realised his cheeks were wet.

“Yes, it is. He is the Once and Future King, now and always, as he has been since I sacrificed myself. And you are the Emrys. In the language of the ancient druids, _emrys_ means something that is eternal, immortal. It is another word for _soul_. Now do you see? You and Arthur are not just two sides of the same coin,” Taliesin said. “You are two halves of the same soul.” 

Merlin felt as though he’d collapse. He pressed his palm to his lips, and his cheeks were cracking into a grin. He stopped trying to gulp down his sobs.

This was it: his destiny. It was not put forth by gods in the heavens. It was crafted by men—by kings. Taliesin put it into motion. And now, he was telling Merlin what it was all for. 

Arthur wasn’t just Merlin’s destiny. He had always been so much more than that—something Merlin did not have a word for.

Suddenly, Taliesin was standing in front of Merlin, looking down at him with ancient eyes.

“You see, Emrys? You have forgotten yourself. You must remember. You are not a servant to the shadows. You are a bringer of light.”

Merlin’s body shuddered. He thought, if he tried very hard, he could _almost_ remember who he’d been—who he and Arthur had been. He could almost remember a world of magic, a world of peace.

He didn’t need to remember it. He’d bring it again. He and Arthur. They’d bring it together.

Merlin believed it to his very core, as he never had before. He could feel it give strength to his bones and well up inside of him. He could feel his magic reaching out, reminding him that it was his own and it was ancient and eternal—and that it had a purpose.

He and Arthur had a purpose. As kings. As magicians. As equal parts of one whole.

Maybe he wasn’t evil after all. He had Arthur inside him. 

Taliesin looked pleased, as though he could read Merlin’s mind. Maybe he could. Or maybe he didn’t need to. Regardless, Taliesin knew he achieved what he’d come for.

“Farewell, Emrys,” he said, and started back towards the blinding light in the cavern. “You will not see me again.”

“Wait!” Merlin called, his voice still wet and overjoyed with tears. There was something he needed to know. “Did Kilgharrah know? All this time?”

Taliesin glanced over his shoulder, the warm smile of memory on his face again. “Ah, yes, Kilgharrah,” he said. “He was my kin. I hatched him from his egg. He knew, yes, but do not take all his words to heart, Emrys. For one so old, he is very young, and does not understand that love is much more powerful than the forces of destiny—and far more noble a cause to fight for.”

Merlin took in one last shaking breath and steadied himself. He watched Taliesin dissolve into the light.

And then the ancient images flashed before him again. They showed only the days of old, of the Old Religion and the court of the ancient kings. Of Taliesin, his birth, his life, his death. 

And he awoke.


	7. Chapter 7

“I’m standing outside Middelsex Guildhall in London, where early today the court decided the fate of Chancellor Brown of the Exeter Republic,” the reporter on the television was saying. She was standing across the street from the enormous white building, some of the lights still on inside. On the nighttime road behind her, horses with carriages and cyclists were rushing by. A police constable in a reflector vest directed the traffic in the roundabout.

The constable was leftover from the dense police presence that had been outside the Guildhall for weeks as Brown’s trial proceeded. They had been there as security detail as the committee members and their cabinets, Arthur, and a panel of judges from each of the provinces, including Exeter, attended the hearings.

Lancelot had attended one himself, going strictly as Gwen’s security escort when she accompanied Arthur; and, from what he saw, the trial was a grueling one. He was fortunate he did not have to attend all the sessions.

But now, finally on an early June evening, the judges had deliberated, and the trial was over. In the last hour, the court had been dismissed and they received word that Arthur was on his way back to Winchester. Gwen was with him, and Lancelot awaited her in her flat.

In the meantime, he watched the bulletin, as the rest of the nation did that night, to hear the results of the ruling.

“After weeks of deliberations, we at the BBC are told that the courts have ruled in favor of the people of Exeter. In addition, as dictated by the results of the referendum held in secret just under two months ago, Exeter will join the British Union.”

Lancelot breathed out in relief, happy to see that the people of Exeter’s vote would count for something.

“Chancellor Brown has lost his chair on the British Committee, but there is no word yet on whether he will step down as leader of the Exeter’s Republic. There has been speculation that, under the new Magical Protection Act—.” 

A key was turning the lock in the door. Lancelot glanced up just as the door opened and Gwen, looking tired in her once-pristine black dress and blazer, came through. Lancelot stood to greet her, and helped her out of her jacket.

“I suppose you’ve heard the announcement,” she said after giving him a peck on the cheek. “It was already on the radio on the drive home. I will never understand how news travels so quickly in this century.”

Lancelot chuckled as Gwen slipped out of her heels as if they were torture devices and fell onto the sofa.

“How is he?” 

Lancelot had a bottle of wine and two glasses ready on the coffee table, knowing she would need it. He poured them now.

“Who? Brown or Arthur?” 

Lancelot had spoken to Arthur about the trial once. He’d seemed frustrated—disappointed, more than anything, but unsurprised by Brown’s crimes. Lancelot supposed Arthur would have mixed feelings about the results, but only because he’d see it as a reflection upon himself. He was too hard on himself, and could not control the honour—or lack thereof—of some of his committee members. But, at the end of the day, Arthur had no love for the Chancellor. He would take the results in stride. 

“Brown. He won’t send his militia to make war on us, will he?” 

Gwen thoughtfully took a sip of her wine before deciding, “No. I do not believe he’ll seek retribution. He’s been discredited. Besides, he’ll have no militia after tonight. The bulletin isn’t telling you this, but he’s no longer Chancellor. It was ruled that he step down.” 

Lancelot blinked in shock. He didn’t think there was anything the media didn’t know, but he was certain they’d get their hands on it sooner or later. Arthur would probably have to hold a press conference in the morning. 

“I believe he should have gone to prison for his actions,” Gwen said ruefully, “but it was not my decision to make. I suppose stripping him of his power and influence is something.”

Lancelot agreed he should have gone to jail, but it wasn’t even remotely up to him. Instead of voicing his opinion, he asked, “Who is to take his place as leader of Exeter?”

“Arthur. It is to become a part of the Kingdom of Winchester.”

Now, Lancelot was truly thrown. “The _Kingdom_ of Winchester?” he echoed. 

“The name needs work, I’ll admit,” she laughed, and then her expression became serious. “But, as we know, the vote to join the union had been close in Exeter. There will be many that won’t accept Arthur’s sovereignty. They will feel he isn’t one of them, and he won’t understand their way of life.”

Lancelot hadn’t considered such a thing. He knew it was the wealthy of Exeter that voted to remain out of the union, and their money and influence could spell trouble in the future. They may even try to revolt. 

“Arthur wants to send someone to Exeter, to rule there in his place when he cannot be present. He feels that will keep the citizens from plotting against him until we can prove to them that the union is in their best interest.”

Lancelot nodded. He knew nothing of the affairs of government, but he knew a sound idea when he heard it. And it seemed as though Arthur and Gwen had already planned everything out. 

“Do you have any idea who he might put in this position?”

Gwen took another long pull of her wine, her gaze now fixed on the telly. The blue light from it played on her features, which knitted into concern. Lancelot felt his heart sinking slowly.

“I do,” she said at last, and turned back to him. “Me.”

Lancelot understood her hesitation to tell him, and he knew why his chest had suddenly felt so constricted. She would have to leave Winchester and live in Exeter. She would have to leave him behind. 

He nodded, doing his best to accept it. He had no right to hold her back. His thoughts had been selfish. 

“I see,” he said, wishing his voice didn’t sound so tight coming out of his throat. “I believe Arthur is right to appoint you. You are the best choice to lead the province. You were once Camelot’s queen, after all, and there is no one he trusts more than you.” 

She nodded in consideration, knowing it all to be true. 

“It isn’t official yet. It may not even happen,” she told him quickly, reading his emotions as only she could. “Arthur may appoint someone else.” 

Lancelot knew he wouldn’t. It would be Gwen. There was no one else.

She put her wine glass on the table and placed her hand on his knee. “But, should it happen, I was wondering . . .” She bit at her lower lip, losing some of her nerve when he met her eyes in curiosity.

“Well,” she said, “if you would like to come with me?” 

Lancelot’s lips parted. He wasn’t certain he’d heard her correctly, or if he’d wistfully dreamt it up.

“You don’t have to—obviously,” she stammered, “not if you don’t want to. I know your place is with the army—as a knight. But . . . Well, you won’t have to be in Winchester all the time, especially when the war with the Neos is over. Whenever that will be . . . Soon, I hope. But, I was just thinking . . . It may not even happen!” 

He found himself smiling as a blush crept over her cheeks. It was so rare for her to become flustered these days, as she did so often when they were young. 

“Gwen,” he said, stopping her before she hurt herself. He took her face in both his hands and stroked her cheek with his thumb. She melted into his touch instantly. “I want nothing more. If Arthur sends you to Exeter, I will follow, if that is what you want.” 

She gave him a dreamlike smile. “Is it what _you_ want?”

“I want only to be with you,” he assured her, “no matter where that is.”

They had spent too long letting the world separate them. He would do all he could to ensure that never happened again.

She leaned in a kissed him, and it was enough to tell him that she, too, would not part from him.

“Now,” he said, clearing his throat and releasing her, “it is late. You must be tired. I will wish you goodnight.”

She pressed her lips together somewhat bashfully, and then dared say, “I wish you wouldn’t.” 

His brows furrowed, and he wondered if, again, he had made that up. 

But then she said again, “I’d like you stay tonight, Lancelot.” 

His heart skipped a beat, and then pounded a rapid tattoo in his chest to make up for the loss. Months ago, when they decided to rekindle their relationship, they had agreed to take things slow. They did not want to rush into something they were not ready for, despite the fact that Lancelot would have sprinted full-speed ahead if she let him. 

Of course, he had desired her since they were young, which only grew with the years once he realised he loved her. But he wanted to make sure she felt right about her decision now. 

“Truly?” he asked hopefully. 

She kissed him again, the promise of passion behind it. 

“Truly,” she answered. 

They leaned into one another again, Lancelot grinning wildly against her lips. She wrapped her arms around him and chuckled softly as she pulled him down to the sofa.

 

///

 

Earlier that day, Morgana received word that Emrys wished to speak with her. She could not go to him immediately, as her advisors and generals held her up in meetings for most of the afternoon. Anticipation brewed inside her as thoughts of him occupied her mind throughout the day, but she did her best to keep it under the surface. After all, what did she care if she made Emrys wait for her? She’d waited on him long enough.

But that was about to change. 

She was certain Emrys had at last accepted that they were stronger together. She knew all he needed was proof, something that showed him his true nature. 

She’d glimpsed his darkness; she’d seen his hatred. They bubbled inside of him, desperate to overflow, clawing to break free. All she’d done to Emrys was hold a mirror up and reveal his reflection. At last, he opened his eyes and got a good look. 

She knew he wouldn’t resist her for long. It was their destiny. 

Long after the sun left the horizon cold, Morgana went to Emrys. She had no fear that the lapse of time caused him to change his mind. Once the revelation was inside him, there was no chance of going back. Morgana knew it well. She, too, had realised that the world was against her. She, too, knew she alone could change that.

She dismissed the guard standing post outside Emrys’ door and unlocked it herself. Emrys was sitting on the bed, his back facing her. He didn’t stir. 

“You wished to speak with me?” Morgana said, her eyes never leaving him. 

There was a long pause before he answered. “I have something to tell you, Morgana.” His tone was even, flat. She took that as a good sign, and stepped further into the room. 

“I’m waiting.” 

She tried to sound demanding, but her heart leapt in her chest as he stood and faced her. He didn’t look quite present in the moment, like he’d removed himself from his body. His eyes were far away, and his face expressionless. It was the same look he’d had whenever he fought and killed the slaves in the black room. It was the look of Emrys.

Morgana fought back a grin. 

Finally, he was hers. 

He walked around the bed and moved to stand in front of her, close enough that their chests were nearly touching and she had to look up to keep his eyes. It was a position they’d been in before so many times in Camelot, when they spoke in whispers of things no one else could hear. When he was called Merlin to her mind. When they were friends. 

In those times, the proximity comforted her. Now, it unnerved her. Her flesh crawled and told her to back away from him. She remained, fighting with her instinct. It was an age-old fear of him lingering in the back of her mind. She told herself she needn’t have that fear anymore. 

“I want you to know,” Emrys said, “that I’ve made my final decision about joining you.”

Morgana’s jaw tightened as she braced herself. The magic already tingled her flesh, eager to join with his and have its victory.

He leaned in, his cheek brushing her hair in way that rattled her spine, and whispered, “I will never betray Arthur.”

Morgana backpedalled, the air ripped from her lungs. All her hopes fizzled in the space between them. They turned to anger.

Emrys straightened out, raised his chin in defiance, and looked down at her.

“You’re a fool,” she spat at him. “You really have learned nothing in your life, have you? People will never see you as their equal, and you will let our kind continue to suffer by their hand. They fear us and despise us! They would kill you, given the chance.”

Emrys didn’t nod, but she knew he agreed. “And you’re not giving them a reason to change their minds. Peace doesn’t come from hatred, Morgana. Maybe we are the same, you and I, but I won’t give into that any longer. We have to be better than them.” 

“We shouldn’t have to be! We have nothing to prove. Why shouldn’t we be exactly the same?” 

He said, simply, “You’re wrong.”

How condescending! She shook her head, desperately fighting the tears that welled in her eyes. He had made her feel this way before: belittled, desperate, angry, alone. She promised herself she would never let him make her feel that way again. She promised she wouldn’t let him get close enough to her. 

But there he was. She realised now these past months only served to reopen the wound he’d once left in her chest. 

“No,” she snarled. “You cannot do this! How dare you betray me again! How could you, Merlin—!” 

The name was out too late. Before she could clamp her jaw around it, it hung between them. She gasped at the sound of it. It hollowed her out.

Some of his demeanour appeared to drop, too. His eyes were almost pitying now. “I won’t join you, Morgana. I don’t care what you do to me because of it. I won’t harm anyone else. Kill me, if you wish. I will die before I turn my back on Arthur.” 

The emptiness in her gave way to rage. It reclaimed dominance in the absence of all else.

“He will turn his back on you,” she warned. “He is not what you hope! He will only ever see you as a tool for his own use—not his equal. None of them will! You will only ever be a servant! You are no one to them, _nothing_!” 

Emrys met her rage with the same distant expression as before. He squared his soldiers, and locked his eyes on hers. When he spoke, there was power and pride in his voice, despite the dark circles under his eyes and the pallor of his skin.

“I am the king consort of Britain.”

Morgana’s fists balled at her sides. The blow cut deeper than Arthur’s sword ever could, and he knew just where to strike. 

She would not let him deal the last blow. Fury laved over her, telling her to strike back at once—to make him pay, to see him beg for her mercy. Her eyes set on fire, and she yelled as she drove her hands towards him. He took in a sharp breath as he flew back through the air, his spine bouncing against the mattress, causing the headboard to knock against the wall. 

Her cheeks already blooming with exertion, she twisted her hands into a fist and his breath hitched. He clutched his throat, unable to get air past his lips. His skin began blushing red. She knew she should not kill him, but she was resolved to hold him there until he slipped from consciousness.

And then, in a flash, he surged his hand forward, his eyes and his cuffs glowing in amber. She was thrown back against the wall, making it thud on impact. He pinned her there, rendering her motionless.

But her magic could still reach out.

She uttered a spell, casting it out towards him. It scraped at his flesh, scratching down his spine like nails and biting at his skin like devouring teeth. He groaned as the curse ravaged through him, but his hold on her did not lessen. She remained frozen beneath his power. 

She needed something more—something to weaken and inundate him. 

She cast another spell, wrapping her magic around him, easing into his muscles and squeezing tight. Until it swelled through him and flooded his senses. Until it prickled his skin. Until he called out and his body buckled and bucked against it. The springs in the bed creaked with his movements. 

Beneath fluttering lashes, his eyes flickered in gold. 

He’d set his magic against hers, pressing it back as she urged it forward. She felt it pulsing against her, making every inch of her throb. The moment his power hit her, her limbs quivered. It shuddered through her like a chill, rocking her bones, as it worked its way inside of her. 

Her chest heaved as she desperately panted for air, her chest burning with the need for it. She heard his breaths, too, laboured and searching for what eluded him.

His magic consumed her, shooting out flames that engulfed her skin and penetrated her insides. Her mind became hazy, her thoughts delirious as her magic fought against the pain.

“Emrys!” she cried out in a rage, sending another curse with it. He writhed, trying to fight it off physically. She heard him hiss her name. 

All the while, his magic continued to undulate through her, digging and thrusting deeper. She gasped and squirmed under his effects, until finally it hit its mark in her chest. 

He could not kill her either, but his magic caused an explosion to rip through her. At the very same moment, her curse burst through him, constricting and fierce. 

And then they let each other go.

Morgana slipped to the floor, her legs too limp to hold her. She’d lost a lot of strength in her enchantments. She pulled in deep bouts of air, trying to catch her breath. The simmering heat on her skin began to cool, and ran a shaking hand through her matted hair. She remained on the floor for some time, too depleted to move. 

On the mattress, Emrys’ chest was rising and falling in quick tandem. He dipped his head back to rest, exposing the long column of his throat as he blinked up at the ceiling, exhausted. Eventually, his breaths evened out. He sat up, glaring at her as his preparing for another round. 

Anger sparked in her again, but not with the same force as before. She knew the two of them trying to destroy one another would get them nowhere. It served no purpose, other than to collect his magic for her weapon.

But she did not want to obtain his power in that way. She wanted him to give it her of his own free will. It would be ever the sweeter if he did.

Perhaps he would not do that through a partnership. She shouldn’t have been so foolish to think there would be a union between them. But she would find another way.

She would still have his power, even if she did not have him.

She stood, doing what she could to collect herself. However, she still felt faint and unsteady as the lingering pulses on his magic settled inside of her. 

“We aren’t through here, Emrys. You will give your power to me,” she warned through heavy breaths. “I swear it, you will.” 

At once, she tore from the room, unable to stand the sight of him anymore.

 

///

 

When Mordred rushed into the throne room, Morgana was in a rage. She was screaming, causing books to tear from the shelves on their own accord. She overturned a table with her hands and smashed a flower vase.

“Morgana!” Mordred yelled, trying to gain her attention. The guards had called for him, as none of them knew what to do with Morgana in such a state. No doubt, she’d kill them if any of them got close, if the fresh body of one such guard on the floor was anything to go by.

“Morgana, stop!” 

She spun around to face him, her eyes wild and her hair sticking in every direction. 

“He will not betray me again! I want him to suffer! I want him to _die_!”

A lamp exploded, its shattered glass flying in every direction. Mordred shielded his face with his arm to protect himself from the shards. When it was over, he let her words process. 

Strangely, he had no desire to tell her he’d warned her of such an outcome. He was too busy planning, wondering if the ballistics technician was finished with his weapon. If Mordred had his way, Merlin would be dead within the hour.

“Peace, Morgana,” he soothed, holding out his hand beseechingly. She paused, her chest heaving. Tentatively, he approached her and guided her to sit on the sofa. “What happened?” he asked when he took his place next to her.

“Emrys,” she spat the word like it was a poison in her mouth. “You were right, Mordred. It’s clear to me now he will never join with us. He is too loyal to Arthur. He’s turned his back on his own kind, and all reason with it. I’ve been foolish. I should have known better.” 

Mordred thinned his lips. It was hard to agree when she spoke like this. “You did what you thought was right, Morgana. It is no mistake that cannot be corrected.”

She nodded, some of the fire back in her eyes. “You’re right. After all, we have Emrys in our grasp. We can end this war once and for all.”

He thought she’d never ask. “He will not see sunrise, my queen.”

“I do not mean to kill him,” she said quickly, and instantly he opened his mouth to protest. However, she held up a hand to silence him and went on, “Not _yet_. Soon. But, first, we must get from him what we need. We do not require him, but his magic. It will be mine. He doesn’t deserve it, anyway.” 

Mordred’s heart sank. He’d hoped she would listen to reason. Even now, she was chasing the impossible.

“It cannot be done, Morgana. You know as well as I, he won’t give it to us.”

“Then, I will _make_ him!” she yelled, and slammed her fist on her leg. Another book shot off the shelf and landed with a thud to the floor. Mordred knew he had to tread carefully, lest she lose her temper again. 

“You’re speaking of torturing him?” he guessed. “He will not give in—.” 

“Not him,” she corrected. “He told me himself, he’d die before betraying his king. No matter what we do to him, he will not change his mind. He does not fear pain or death.” 

He knew she was leading up to something. She had a glint in her eyes that said she’d had an idea.

She continued, a ghost of a grin forming on her lips, “But he’s always had a soft spot for the weak and helpless. If they’re made to suffer pain—if it was their lives in the balance . . .”

Mordred understood where she was going. It was the first sensible thing she’d said in regards to Merlin in months. 

A smile stretched onto his face. It was good to have her back. 

“I will make arrangements at once,” he told her, and stood. 

She stood, too, and seemed calmer for their discussion. “See that you do. Soon, we will have Emrys begging for us to take his magic.”

 

///

 

Merlin thought it would be days before he saw Morgana again. He thought she would need time to lick her wounds and obsess over new ways to sway his opinion.

He did not expect three guards to come into his cell that very night and attach the chains to his irons cuffs in preparation to move him. He readied himself for the point of a needle to slide through the bruises on his arm. Part of him wanted the drug, knowing he’d be sharper and more powerful for what was to come with it. He was thrown when they didn’t administer it. 

Instead, he was taken to the car outside and began the familiar journey to the black room.

As always, all the blood and corpses had been cleared away, and the room was a perfect void. As Merlin walked through it, he could not see where the walls met the ceilings or where his feet hit the floor. 

Two chairs, facing each other about three feet apart, stood beneath the cone of white light streaming down from the bulb. Merlin was placed in one of the chairs with his back to the door. One of the guards wound his chains around the armrests while the other two pointed their guns threateningly at Merlin. And then, with that done, they left.

Merlin sat still, balling his fists around the edges of the armrests and staring at the chair before him for what felt like hours. Time eluded him in the black room, and at once point he found himself wondering if the sun had begun to rise. His mind wandered and swirled, and then fogged over as listlessness engulfed him. A wakeful sleep weighed down his eyelids, and he was awoken by the sound of sharp footsteps behind him.

He took in a deep breath, adrenaline pumping through him. He recognised the footsteps as Morgana’s.

She stole past him, her eyes locked on him and her chin turning to keep him in her sights as she moved to the back of the opposite chair. She stood behind it, curling her hands around the back. 

“Hello, Emrys,” she said. The overhead light caused a silhouette around her figure. “I’ll give you one last chance to change your mind. Although, I fear the offer to join me is no longer between us. Give your magic to me. I will take your power as my own and conquer Britain without you by my side.” 

Merlin shook his head, and part of him wanted to laugh. His magic would destroy her, as it had his doctor, Simon. Maybe she would have lasted long enough to detonate her weapon, but she would burn up inside along with the nation. “I can’t do that, Morgana.” It was for her own good, as it was for the good of Britain.

She accepted the answer, not appearing surprised or disappointed by it. Her lips remained sneered. “So be it. Just know you chose what comes next.”

Merlin’s fists tightened around the chair. He was ready for whatever pain they had in store for him. What was another scar in his collection, after all?

Morgana called across the room, “Bring him in.”

There were three distinct footsteps behind Merlin. He did not look back at the newcomers, but instead kept his eyes on Morgana. He raised his chin to show he wasn’t afraid. 

Mordred came into view first. He stood to the left of the chair, just out of the circle of light, holding a small wooden chest between his hands. And then Malcolm came forward, leading a man in a slave’s uniform. A zip tie bound the man’s hands before him.

All of Merlin’s resolve and defiance drained from him, taking with it the colour in his cheeks. He’d expected to see a man with knives, hammers, picks, and prods. He did not expect this. 

He blanched as Malcolm forced the man to sit and tied his wrists and ankles to the chair. The man barely resisted, too terrified to do so. His breath was shaking with every exhale and his hands trembled. He knew what was coming. 

“Morgana, don’t,” Merlin whispered, eyes wide so that their whites showed around his irises. 

“I think it’s too late for that, Emrys,” she said, a gleeful litany in her voice. 

Merlin wasn’t above begging. “No, Morgana—please. This man has nothing to do with us!” 

“Oh, does he not? Tell me, slave, to whom do you pledge your allegiance?”

The man whimpered, but managed to sputter out, “I g—give my—my life to the g—glory of the Twice Crowned King.”

Merlin closed his eyes. The words sent a chill down his spine.

“You see? As one of Arthur’s loyal subjects, he is an enemy of mine.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he told her, opening his eyes again. 

She pouted her lips in mock sympathy. “Oh, Emrys, you would not see one your subjects killed, would you? You are the king consort, after all. You have a duty to protect your people.”

He knew how he could stop this, but he couldn’t. He thought of Arthur, and all the others who would die if he gave in to Morgana’s demands.

“I won’t give you my magic, Morgana.” 

He looked to the man, whose eyes pleaded with Merlin to help him. Merlin wished he could. He swallowed down the tears causing a lump in his throat. “I’m sorry.” 

Again, the man whimpered.

Morgana turned to Mordred. “Bring it to me.”

Mordred came into the light, holding out the chest in front of him. When he reached the chair, he lifted the lid, and the creature inside hissed as it slithered up from inside. It was a thin, black serpent resembling a garden snake. But Merlin knew it was far more deadly. 

“I’m sure you’ve seen a Nathair before,” Morgana said. She pinched the back of the serpent’s head with her fingers and picked it up, placing it in the flat of her hand. She smiled down at it gently, as if it were her pet. “The poor things had gone extinct, just like all the other creatures of magic, before Avalon brought them back into this world.”

Merlin clamped his jaw. He knew of the creature. Morgana had used it before—on Elyan, on Gaius. And on Gwaine.

She lowered her hand, placing it on the man’s shoulder. He gasped as the Nathair slithered off Morgana’s palm and glided around his neck.

“Once its venom touches the skin, even the strongest of men cannot endure its effects.” She grinned again, and the shadows played wickedly on her face.

Merlin remained silent. He met her gaze. 

She gave a quick, low chuckle. Then, she uttered an incantation and her eyes lit up. A snake to a piper, the Nathair responded at once. It opened its jaw wide, revealing sharp fangs. It bit down on the man’s flesh. At once, the man howled in pain.

Merlin held Morgana’s stare, doing all he could to not let the screams break down his walls.

But then, they grew louder and more horrible. The man began to weep, making his shouts wet and rattled. The Nathair bit down again and did not release him.

“Please! Stop! _Please_!” the man cried.

The words attracted Merlin’s gaze instinctually, and he saw the man was turning red and purple with exertion. He squirmed and writhed in attempt to free himself. Merlin’s mouth fell open as he tried to find the air. 

He told himself he could stop this. He could help that man. 

No. He couldn’t. The fate of Albion depended on it. 

As though she heard his thoughts, Morgana taunted, “You can end this, Emrys. Just say the word. This man needn’t die.”

Her words were so far away, consumed by the shrieking that no longer sounded as if a human were making them.

“Do you really think Arthur will forgive you if you let this man die? It will only prove to him that you’re the monster Uther warned him about.” 

Merlin took in a deep breath, trying to prevent the tears burning his eyes. He couldn’t listen to her. He couldn’t let her words in. 

Before he fully registered the silence, the screaming ceased. It still echoed in his mind, but the man had gone limp, motionless. Merlin didn’t have to look at him to know he was dead, but he looked anyway. He couldn’t help himself. 

After a pause, Morgana plucked the Nathair off of the body and placed it back in the box.

“Do you see what you’ve done?” she scolded.

Merlin hung his head, feeling his own heart racing in his chest.

“Take it away,” Morgana said about the corpse. Malcolm unbound the man and picked him up, all but dragging him away.

When all was silent again, she quirked a brow and asked, “Now, Emrys, will you give me what I want?” 

Maybe Merlin really had learned nothing in his life, because he shook his head. Now that the man was out of sight, it was easy to be defiant once more. “No.” 

“Very well. Bring in the next!”

The next slave, a woman, put up more of a fight as she was brought into the room. She dug her heels into the tile, making the floor squeal as she was dragged forward. Malcolm picked her up and carried her, but she thrashed in his hold. He overpowered her and eventually tied her to the chair, taking away a few scratches to his arms as a souvenir. 

“Let me go!” the woman shouted, and Merlin didn’t know whether to call her bravery valiant or stupid. Maybe it was a little bit of both, and maybe that’s what bravery is. Arthur thought so, anyway.

“That’s up to Emrys,” Morgana told her.

The woman looked to Merlin, some of her fear slipping through. “Tell her to let me go.”

The words were stuck in Merlin’s throat, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to prevent them from coming out. When he was certain he could speak without his tongue betraying him, he said again, “I’m sorry.” 

The woman spat hatefully in his direction, but it didn’t get as far as she would have liked. It landed on the floor between his shoes—right about in the same place Merlin’s heart was.

Morgana was thrilled. “She’s a spirited one. Such a shame.”

She moved for the box again, and Merlin found some of his own valiant, stupid bravery.

“Wait! Stop!” He wasn’t speaking to Morgana. He knew she was passed reasoning with. But maybe he could appeal to someone else. “Mordred . . . You have to stop her.”

He had seen Mordred’s face while the first slave had been tortured. There was a conflict within him. He’d looked uncomfortable, but tried to hide it. Perhaps he’d been all for this plan when it wasn’t a reality, but once an innocent man was set before him, screaming and dying, Mordred hadn’t the stomach for it. After all, his revenge had nothing to do with these people. It was Merlin and Arthur he wanted. 

“I know you don’t want this,” Merlin tried.

“You know nothing of what I want, nor how far I’d go to achieve it,” Mordred seethed. He placed his hand on the box’s lid, and Merlin’s stomach lurched. 

“I’ll tell you why I let you live that day on the bridge!”

Mordred paused, his hand resting on the lid, his fingers brushing the latch. He brought his eyes to Merlin eagerly. Morgana also seemed interested.

“Let her go,” Merlin bargained, nodding his head towards the woman, “and I’ll tell you.”

“Tell us, and we’ll let her go,” Morgana countered.

Merlin chewed on sensitive sore on the inside of his cheek, considering the deal. He knew he had no choice. They held all the cards. He could only hope they held up their end. 

“You weren’t brought back the same way as everyone else,” Merlin told him. “The Cup didn’t bring you back.”

Mordred shook his head, agreeing. “Yes, I know that.”

Forgetting himself in his desperation, Merlin tried to stand, only to be held back by his chains. “And you never wondered why you returned? Or how?”

Of course, Mordred did. It was written on his face. 

“I was brought back so that the queen could gain her rightful throne.” 

Merlin shook his head. “No, you’re wrong.”

Morgana fumed, “It was his destiny to—.” 

“No, it wasn’t! It was because of Arthur.” Merlin pressed his lips together, not wanting to reveal the truth. Would Morgana really kill Mordred to end Arthur’s life? She cared about him. Would she really do such a thing? 

And, if she didn’t, would Mordred sacrifice himself for Morgana’s victory?

Merlin wasn’t sure.

“Arthur?” Mordred asked, confused. “Speak!”

Merlin glanced at the woman in the chair before him. He had no choice but the tell the truth. 

“You killed each other with blades forged in dragon’s breath. The magic in your swords bound your fates. When Arthur was called back from Avalon, you returned with him.” 

Mordred went pale, his lips parting. His eyes darted as the information processed. He did not deny it; he did not call Merlin a liar. He knew it was the truth. 

Merlin turned to Morgana. “If you kill Arthur, you kill Mordred, too.”

Morgana’s gaze fell to the floor as she thought it over. He saw the moment she realised that her victory could never be complete. And that was a very dangerous thing. 

Still, Merlin was satisfied in the knowledge that she would not sacrifice Mordred for her cause. 

“And if I die,” Mordred worked out, his voice low and thoughtful, “Arthur dies. That is why you let me live.”

Merlin’s gut squirmed as he realised he didn’t know what Mordred would do next. He nodded. “Yes.”

Mordred and Morgana shared a look, some silent conversation passing between them, and then Morgana took the box from Mordred’s hands.

“Thank you for such information, Emrys,” she said, lifting the lid. Her smirk slithered back onto her face. “Now, shall we continue?”

Merlin felt as if he were no longer in his body. He was floating in vacant space. All of him went numb.

It had been a gamble, and he’s lost.

“No . . . No, Morgana, don’t!” 

Distantly, he watched Morgana place the Nathair on the woman’s shoulder. He heard the woman yell and curse. He heard himself protesting. He saw Morgana’s eyes light up. 

The moment he was pulled back into his body, the bloodcurdling screams began. They were deafening.

 

///

 

“Morgana, just consider it—.” 

“I won’t.”

They had been having this argument— _discussion_ —for as long as it took them to reach the throne room. Emrys was on his way back to his cell (the cupboard again, not the bedroom, as Morgana ordered) but his words still rang in Mordred’s ears. They followed him up the stairs, into the lift, and down the corridor. When the doors to the throne room closed, they were trapped inside with him.

They festered, whispering to him that he could win this war for Morgana.

“We could kill Arthur without having to step foot in Winchester,” he reasoned as she sat down on her throne. “It would weaken the committee and leave the provinces open to you. And, as an added bonus, Arthur’s death will weaken Emrys enough to give you want you want. He will have nothing to fight for anymore.” 

Morgana scoffed, shaking her head.

He rushed up to her and knelt before her. “Allow me to do this.” 

“No, Mordred,” she said. “You must know this was a trick. Emrys was lying, nothing more. He knew you’d react this way. He wants you dead and me distracted by your loss. Do not allow him to fool you.”

Mordred had seen Merlin lie many times—and he was very skilled at deceptions. It didn’t feel the same. He knew Merlin had been telling the truth, and Morgana knew it, too. She just wouldn’t admit it.

He did not want to die. He wanted to stay with Morgana, to protect her and see her victorious. But if his death could facilitate those things, he would happily give himself up. 

“But—.” 

“No, Mordred,” Morgana snipped, finality in her voice, and perhaps a part of Mordred was relieved by it.

Her expression softened, and she cupped Mordred’s cheek in her palm. “I will not lose you as I did Morgause. You mean too much to me.”

His heart fluttered and warmed, and he found a genuine smile twitching his lips. 

“I am sorry we have been at such odds as of late, my queen,” he told her. “I only wished to protect you.” 

“You have,” she assured him. “I would be wiser to listen to your council more closely in the future.” 

She released him, and he rose before her.

“I am glad to have you by my side, Mordred. Please, do not let Emrys take you away from me.” 

And, although he knew Merlin spoke the truth, he would not abandoned Morgana to face him alone. Not yet. First, they would try to find another way to stop Arthur. 

“I swear it.”


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist and then splayed them again under Gaius’ instruction. It was nice to be able to move his hand more freely now. He twirled his wrist, and tried not to bear his teeth at the sensitivity the movement caused. It wasn’t painful, but he could tell the wrist wasn’t completely healed yet.

Still, it was nice to finally have the cast off. He watched as Gaius chucked the cast into the bin, and felt relieved by it. Instantly, his mind went to his sword. He wondered how long it would be until he could use it in battle. The sooner he built up his strength, the sooner he could bring Merlin home. 

“How does it feel?” Gaius asked, moving around to the opposite side of Arthur’s desk and sitting in the chair there. They were in Arthur’s study in the manor, where Arthur had been shifting through piles of documents belonging to the former Exeter Republic’s administration. It had been a week since Brown was ousted and Arthur gained control of the province, and he felt as if he hadn’t made a dent in the paperwork.

He was overjoyed, for more reasons than one, when Gaius called around and offered a beak—and to finally take off that dreadful cast.

“Fine,” Arthur lied. It wasn’t a complete lie. He just had to get used to having the cast off. He would be back to normal in no time.

Gaius raised a brow as if he could see through Arthur with x-ray vision. Arthur’s gaze fell down to the papers on his desk. He found a fountain pen lying on the edge of the desk and picked it up. Gripping it between his fingers felt strange, and he was aware of Gaius assessing him. He placed the pen down carefully.

“Is that it, then?” 

“Well,” Gaius said in a tone that suggested it very much wasn’t _it, then_. “I’d like to keep your wrist in a sling for another—.” 

Arthur groaned loudly. He’d taken the sling off when Morgana had come to Winchester and never put it on again. It was worse than the cast.

“Fine, then a brace. At least for another week while your wrist builds its strength.”

Arthur puckered his lips in thought. He decided, “No. My arm won’t get strong again by coddling it. It’s time I got back to training.”

Gaius knew what he really meant.

“Sire, if you work yourself too hard so soon, I fear the wrist may be prone to a fracture, and then we’ll be back where we started with this whole mess.”

Arthur picked up the pen again and turned his attention back to the papers, trying to signal that he wanted this conversation to end. His patience was running thin, and he certainly wouldn’t be subjected to another crutch while he should have been convincing his committee that he was ready to march on York.

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Arthur—.”

Arthur let out a frustrated breath and dropped the pen, and all pretences with it. “I have to find a way to get to him, Gaius!”

“We’ve been through this, sire,” Gaius said, trying so hard to be patient. “If we send an army to Morgana’s door, she will wipe them out instantly. We must wait for Cenred to sent word to us.”

Arthur barely even heard him. “I don’t care what it takes.” 

“And until your arm is fully healed, you cannot—.” 

“Damn my arm!” He slammed his fist down on the desk, but it still caused a phantom ache to spike in the healing bones of his wrist. It made him regret his temper. Her grunted and touched the soft, pale skin where his cast had been. 

As though it proved Gaius’ point, he pressed his lips together. “I want him home safely as much as you do, Arthur,” he said gently. Arthur knew it was the truth. He knew Gaius was feeling just as helpless as he was at the moment. Or, maybe not quite. Arthur couldn’t even wield a sword for months, and it would still take time before his strength returned fully. What use was he to anyone at all?

“I know,” Arthur sighed. He closed his eyes and leaned back on his chair. Horrible images of Merlin alone in some dungeon, shackled to the walls, played in his mind. “I just—.” He worried for Merlin, constantly. Merlin had to be okay. The kingdom needed him to be okay.

Arthur needed him to be okay. 

“You know how he gets sometimes,” he fretted, opening his eyes to find Gaius giving him a very pitying look. It was probably meant to be sympathetic instead, but Arthur didn’t take it that way. He hated it. 

“Not in a long time,” Gaius tried to tell him. Arthur didn’t believe him. He knew exactly how long it had been. 

“Three months, one week, and four days.” 

That he knew of.

He didn’t know when he’d started to count the days in between Merlin’s truly bad depressive states. Consciously, he never started; but, somewhere during their first life together, Arthur found he’d kept track of Merlin’s sadness. The habit bled into their second life, only now Arthur found himself holding his breath in anticipation of it. 

Gaius blinked, seeming shocked that Arthur would know such a thing. Arthur was shocked about it himself, but he powered through. 

“That’s not very long for him, Gaius. He’s immortal.”

Gaius paused for a long time, as though he didn’t know what to say. When he finally did speak, he said carefully, “He’s stronger than you think.” 

He wasn’t. That was the problem. Arthur knew just how strong Merlin was. He was stronger than anyone Arthur had ever met, so much more than any larger than life hero Arthur had idolized as a boy. Somehow, Arthur had always known that, but he never knew the reason. 

He did now. He was the reason. 

No one ever told him so much strength and bravery came at a price. It was supposed to be honour and riches, like it was in the stories. In reality, it was days holed up in bed and an endless bottles of sleeping pills.

Arthur reached for the desk drawer, jerked it open, and pulled out the journal inside. He slammed it down on the desk. It was Merlin’s journal from before the War, with the missing gap of time when he’d gone mad. The words Merlin had written when he’d gotten home from the hospital were still seared into Arthur’s eyelids, and burned white whenever he blinked.

The appearance of the journal startled Gaius. He gaped from it to Arthur and back again, unsure what it was or what Arthur had meant by it.

“This is one of his journals. You’ve seen him writing in them. He does it less now, but he’s been writing them almost since the beginning. Since . . .” Since the end. “Since my death.” 

He placed his palm on the leather surface. It was old and battered and brittle to the touch, but still warm somehow, like a corpse that had just lost its pulse. Like Merlin had been for so long. Arthur’s jaw tightened. 

“It’s my fault he’s like this,” he said. He’d never said that aloud before. “I did this to him.” 

“Arthur . . .” 

Whatever Gaius had to say after that, Arthur wasn’t interested. He felt his eyes burning. He inhaled sharply to keep the tears at bay. He tore his gaze from the journal and focused on Gaius instead. He looked so, so pitying. 

“You knew him best in Camelot.” It sounded like an accusation, but it hadn’t been intended in that way. Arthur couldn’t help the tone of his voice. He couldn’t help anything. “Think of what he was like when he first came under your care. You saw a change in him.” 

Gaius maintained, “I saw a change in you both.” 

Arthur breathed in again and shook his head once, angry. Maybe he wasn’t angry with Gaius; or maybe he was. He was angry with Gaius for allowing Merlin to sacrifice himself so often. He was angry with himself for not seeing it. He was angry at that godforsaken dragon for using Merlin like a puppet, and at destiny for using him as a chess piece. He was angry with Merlin for playing along with it. 

“I was a prince. I was meant to be king! He was a _servant_. He was supposed to fetch my dinner and clean my chambers and nothing more. He wasn’t supposed to stick his neck where it didn’t belong.”

Gaius’ posture straightened out. Perhaps Arthur should have been grateful to have someone who knew how to handle his tempers. But, at the moment, he wanted someone who would yell back at him. He wanted Merlin.

“You and I both know he was meant for greater things. It is not your fault, Arthur.” 

“But it’s because of me!” He couldn’t hold back his emotion anymore. It pooled in his eyes and caused a crack in his voice. “He would have been fine if he’d never met me! And now—now he’s at Morgana’s mercy because his life means _nothing_ to him! That’s what I’ve done to him!” He hadn’t meant to. He’d never chosen that, and he certainly didn’t want it. “I’ve made him think he’s _nothing_! But he’s—.”

He swallowed hard around the word. It got stuck in his throat.

For all the bad he’d put Merlin through, for all the guilt Arthur felt because of it, he hated himself for not regretting a day. He hated himself, because he was glad that Merlin was the man he was. He was glad that Merlin had turned him into a different man, too. He knew Merlin felt the same. They were glad they were together. If only they could be happy, too.

One day. One day, Arthur would make sure their days were only bright. He would never count the hours between Merlin’s sadness again. One day, he promised himself. 

But for now, he was tired. It showed in his voice.

“If I don’t have him, I have nothing,” he finished, and for the first time in weeks, he felt lighter. He just hoped Merlin knew how Arthur felt—that Arthur didn’t know who he was without him. 

Again, Gaius stayed quite. This pause was much longer, much heavier. Then, he walked around the desk and took Arthur’s hand in his. There was so much understanding in that touch, so much love. It had always comforted Arthur for as long as he could remember. Often, as a child, he wished it had come from Uther. Now, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Very well, Arthur. Then, let’s bring him home,” said Gaius.

 

///

 

Merlin was roused from his shallow sleep by murmurs from the other side of the door. Locked in his cupboard, he didn’t know what time of day it was, but he reckoned it was still early.

He blinked, finding it hard to focus on what the voices were saying—or anything at all, for that matter. He knew it was the Lapis drug dwindling from his system, as it had been for the past week. Already, he was fidgeting and his hands quaked, and he knew worse symptoms were to come.

He’d get through them. He’d fight them off. He’d come through the other side, just like everything else. 

He rattled his head and forced himself to pay attention to the voices. Slowly, the mutterings from outside formed words, and the voice sounded familiar.

“The queen has demanded your presence,” Cenred was saying. “I will watch the prisoner.”

There was a response, but Merlin couldn’t quite hear it. However, he recognised the speech pattern as Malcolm’s. 

Cenred scoffed. “I think I’m more than capable of standing guard at a cupboard.”

There was scuffling, and Merlin perked up as he thought, maybe, it was working. A few moments later, he heard the front door open and close. And then, there was silence. 

Merlin skewed his eyes closed and strained his ears. A prayer wasn’t far from his lips—full of incoherent mumblings that Cenred had succeeded, that he would bring word from Arthur—any deity that dared listen.

After a long while, and then the cupboard door was ripped open. Merlin winced in the onslaught of morning light that bounced off the white walls of the corridors and caused a glare on the floors. It took him a moment to realise the shadow standing before him was, indeed, Cenred.

Relief washed over Merlin like a warm wave on sunlit sand, despite the look Cenred was giving him. His expression wasn’t exactly pitying, and it wasn’t mockery, either; but it might have been somewhere in between. Merlin couldn’t bring himself to care. 

“Here, drink this,” Cenred said, offering him a half-full bottle of water. He tipped it against Merlin’s cracked lips, causing some drops to dribble down his chin. It stung the scabs on his mouth at first, and it was warm and stale, like it had been sitting out for hours. Still, it tasted sweet and pure to Merlin’s parched tongue. He drank until it was gone.

“No chance you can get me out of these?” he joked, eking out a grin and rattling his bony wrists against his cuffs. He wondered how dry his voice might have sounded if Cenred hadn’t proffered him a drink.

Cenred’s face darkened. “I fear I don’t share Malcolm’s talents. My stay here will be brief. It won’t be long before he realises Morgana hasn’t called for him—unless you prefer his company to mine, that is.”

In truth, Merlin preferred neither of their company, but he managed to hold his tongue. He did wonder what Cenred would tell Malcolm when he returned, but didn’t ask. 

Instead, he got to the point: “You’ve been trying to speak with me for weeks.” 

“I have. I tried to reach you the moment my people began to go missing. The Neos were taking them from their beds in the night like cowards,” Cenred said. “It began after your arrival. I thought it was for some plot to do with you. When I told Morgana of it, I hoped you would hear and see it as a warning.” 

Merlin pressed his lips together guiltily. He should have made the connection sooner. He should I known Morgana would never allow him to kill her own soldiers, so fit for battle themselves.

“And then, I came when I discovered what Morgana was doing with them.” His eyes were almost black now. “That you were slaughtering them.” 

“I didn’t know,” Merlin said sorrowfully. 

Cenred’s speculative gaze didn’t relent. “Perhaps,” he allowed. “That is what I wished to determine by speaking with you.” 

Merlin tightened his fists, and then realised he had no right to be angry about Cenred’s suspicion. He didn’t blame the king for thinking him a monster. After all, he’d come very close to proving him right. 

“Now, I come to you on behalf of Arthur,” Cenred told him, and Merlin immediately gave his full attention. “He’s swayed the committee to dispatch the army to York. As we speak, he and his generals are making plans to come to your rescue. My people are to grant them access to the base from the inside.”

Merlin cursed under his breath. It was a stupid idea. If Morgana saw them coming, they’d be dead before they made it a few steps into the Neo Territory.

As if Cenred read his mind, he said, “It’s brazen. But I believe Arthur has deemed your time here fruitless, since you haven’t given any valuable insight into Morgana’s plans.”

It was an accusation, and it was a glimmer of wisdom.

“But, then, the reason you stayed was never about spying,” he went on sagely. “It was about ensuring the king’s safety.” 

“It still is,” Merlin admitted. “It’s not safe for him to come here.” 

“I don’t think you can stop him. He didn’t ask me for your permission. He’s quite intent. He asks you be complacent in your own rescue.” He grinned handsomely. “Or shall I tell him you don’t wish to return to Winchester?”

Merlin shot him a weary look, not in the mood for humour. He wanted to go home more than almost anything. Almost. He wanted Arthur alive more. 

But he knew Arthur wouldn’t wait forever. He was lucky he’d bought the time he did.

“Tell him I’m coming home,” Merlin said, the words like velvet in his mouth. On some nights, he was sure he’d never get to say them. But, still, it was much easier said than done. “But when I’m ready. And I will be ready—soon. Have the committee continue their plans, and have your people prepared. But Arthur has to wait until I give him the word.”

Knowing Arthur wouldn’t be very happy with that, Cenred said, “Or else?” 

“Or else, I’ll plant my feet here and refuse to go back with him!” 

Merlin realised he was being difficult, but Arthur was being impossible.

Cenred only rolled his eyes.

“I will get word to Arthur once it’s safe,” Merlin promised, as if Arthur stood before him and not Cenred. “Tell him I have a plan.” 

Cenred was dubious. “What plan?”

“Not sure. I haven’t thought of it yet.” 

Looking as though he wanted to roll his eyes again, Cenred muttered, “The pair of you are made for one another.”

Merlin couldn’t help the rush that overcame him at that. It quirked the smallest of smiles to the corners of his lips as he remembered Arthur’s touch, always so right against his skin, as if his soul rose up to meet it. Soon, it would be more than just a reverie. 

He was going home.

Cenred made to turn away, and then paused. He considered, “I should take my people and flee from York before Morgana’s weapon kills us all along with Arthur.”

Merlin was tempted to tell him to go. He’d only be protecting his people, and Merlin wouldn’t fault him for that. Neither would Arthur, in the end, even if he would question Cenred’s honour. 

Merlin wouldn’t question it, not when he thought of all the slaves—all the innocent people—Morgana would capture and kill until Merlin gave in to her demands. Cenred had the power to protect them; or, at least, he could get them to run for their lives. Merlin wanted to tell him to do just that, but he paused.

Arthur would need people on the inside when he brought his army. Frightening them off could ruin his chances of victory against the Neos.

Merlin ground his teeth, trying to decide what to do. How many people was he willing to sacrifice for Arthur’s success? 

The question sat heavy in his stomach. He didn’t want anyone to die because of him, but it was a little late for that. 

He bit his lower lip, half-regretting what he was about to say as Cenred looked at him expectantly. Knowing the decision to not say anything would weigh on his heart forever, he said, “There’s something you don’t know. Morgana isn’t finished kidnapping people—slaves. She’s not having me fight them anymore, but she’s still using them. I’m not sure where she’s finding them—here or in the rest of the Territory.”

Cenred’s expression grew dark. “For what purpose?”

“She’s torturing them so I’ll agree to give her my magic.” 

Cenred’s fists tightened as if he were holding a sword, a soldier ready to charge into battle. 

“Yes, you have to tell them to run, Cenred. Not just because of Morgana’s weapon. They have to leave sooner than the battle. Anyone who can—get them out of here now,” Merlin urged. “There’s no telling who she’ll pick next, so make them leave. But you must keep the strongest of them here in the base to aid Arthur when he arrives.”

Not everyone would be able to leave. Some would remain out of fear. Some would be captured by the Neo patrols as they attempted escape. Many would die, but at least running would give them a chance. 

“Contact Winchester. Tell Arthur to send soldiers to the borderlands to help the people escape to the provinces. They can take refuge there. But Arthur will want to come to York. He _cannot_ do that until I send him word.”

“And when will that be?” Cenred scoffed. 

Merlin thinned his lips. “I told you. I don’t know yet.”

“I need more than your uncertainty with my people’s lives in the balance. While you and Morgana fight for dominance over one another, it is the innocent who die.”

Hadn’t that always been the way?

“I understand,” Merlin soothed. “You are their king. You want to protect them, but we need to wait until the right opportunity to bring the army here. Without it, we will never succeed and the war will continue. More people will die.” 

Merlin didn’t know when the right opportunity would present itself. It could take weeks, months. Morgana was shrewd and meticulous, but he would find the opportune time eventually.

“That better come soon,” Cenred warned, “or you must find a way to force her hand.”

Merlin nodded, wondering if such a thing were possible. It would take planning.

“Leave that to me.” 

Cenred scrutinized him hard, and Merlin wondered how reliable he looked with bags under his eyes and the pallid skin of withdrawal sickness.

“I’ve been putting far more faith in you and Arthur than I would like to recently,” he said, but it was enough for Merlin to know that he was still on their side.

“Yeah,” Merlin said. “But admit it: you believe in him just a little bit.”

Instead of admitting it, Cenred closed the cupboard door. 

And part of Merlin wanted to call him back and ask him to bring more of the drug. That way, he would be able to focus. Arthur needed him sharp for what was to come.

He refrained, thinking better of it.

He’d get through it. 

He was going home. The thought of that would be enough to give him strength.

He’d get through it.

 

///

 

Late that night, after the soldiers had gone home to their families and the base had turned silent, Mordred met Malcolm in the armoury. Malcolm had gotten there before him, and was holding a padded black case by the handle.

“Is that it?” Mordred asked, bypassing the polished swords, rifles, and grenades that were housed in the armoury. The weapon in Malcolm’s hands was far more powerful than any of them combined. 

Malcolm nodded once and placed the case on the nearby bench. He lifted the latches and raised the lid. Inside, nestled in foam, was a military grade glock. Three silver bullets were set out beside it.

Mordred furrowed his brows at them, something akin to disappointment washing over him. The weapon had been much more elegant as a broadsword. 

“Only three bullets?” he demanded. “Surely, a sword of that size yielded more than that.”

He wondered if the ballistics technician had saved some of the bullets for herself, or perhaps Malcolm had taken them. 

“It took the technician a lot of trial and error to get it right. The metal is condensed into these bullets,” Malcolm explained. “You can’t think of it as a sword anymore. A gun is an entirely different thing.” 

Mordred narrowed his eyes, but decided to believe him. After all, Malcolm was loyal to Morgana and had not failed Mordred yet. The three bullets would have to do. If all went well, Mordred would only need one, anyway, to pierce Merlin’s heart. 

He picked up on of the bullets and rolled it around in his palm, getting a feel for the weight and smoothness of it. Something inside the metal warmed his skin—something ancient and alive responding to the magic within him. 

He preferred his sword, but this method was quicker and more efficient.

“Are you sure we still need this? The queen isn’t trying to align with Emrys anymore,” Malcolm reminded him.

Mordred formed a fist over the bullet. It was because Morgana had failed in persuading Merlin that they needed a weapon to kill him. Now that Merlin had revealed his true loyalties, he was more dangerous to Morgana than ever—and Morgana was dangerous to herself. She would stop at nothing to bend Merlin to her mercy, and Mordred feared her rage would blind her. She would never accept that Merlin would rather watch a thousand people die than betray Arthur. 

“I’m sure,” Mordred told him.

He picked up the gun and took out the magazine. He placed the three bullets inside and made the gun whole again. He held it up between two hands, aiming it at the far wall. His gaze travelled down the barrel, his imagination conjuring up a golden haired man as his target. He blinked, forcing the image to change into Merlin’s visage.

His finger hovered over the trigger, but he did not pull it.

 

///

 

“What do you mean, he said to wait?”

Arthur wasn’t exactly livid, but he was frustrated. The committee had finally given him the go ahead to execute the mission on York. The army was ready to go, simply waiting on his word to move out.

And then, just after dawn broke, one of Cenred’s messengers rode into Winchester with a letter from his king. He had given it to Leon, who now stood in Arthur’s office in Guildhall and relayed the news.

Arthur glanced back down at the letter in his hands, quickly reading it over again. It was certainly in Cenred’s handwriting, and Leon assured him the messenger had been one of Cenred’s usual men, and thus could be trusted. There was no reason to suspect Morgana had any hand in this, or that Cenred had been found out.

There could only be one truth: Merlin still insisted on remaining in York. At least for a little while longer. It gave Arthur relief that he’d agreed to come home, but the timeframe on his plans were nebulous at best. It could take months—and for what? For all Merlin’s talents, he evidently wasn’t a very good spy.

“That is what the messenger said, sire,” Leon told him. “We are asked to not move on the Neo base until Merlin gives us the word. I don’t know when that will be. The messenger did not say. I don’t think King Cenred knows, either.” 

“No, I doubt he does,” Arthur muttered, skimming the page again.

He wanted to badly to ball it up at throw it in the bin. He wanted to forget it even came to him, to deny the messenger made it to Winchester, and go along with the plan. 

But he didn’t know what the situation was on the base. Merlin did. Cenred did. And he needed both of their cooperation for the mission to be a success. 

Cenred’s opinion meant very little to Arthur, but Merlin . . .

“Should I tell the army we’re to move out as planned?” Leon asked off Arthur’s silence. 

Arthur closed his eyes, wanting to say yes.

“No,” he decided.

Arthur trusted Merlin. 

He also trusted Merlin to be an idiot and keep himself in harm’s way just to keep Arthur safe. So he said, “We give Merlin a week. If we haven’t heard anything from him by then, we go ahead with the plan. Relay that to the generals.”

Leon bowed his head and turned out of the office.

Arthur stared down at the paper, fixed on Merlin’s name in the scrawled penmanship.

_One more week_ , he told himself. 

He’d get through it.

 

///

 

As the days dragged on, Merlin weakened—alone in his claustrophobic cell, the particles of humidity and darkness swirling around him. His brow was lined with sweat, but his spine constantly rattled with chills. His stomach was hollow, but always seemed to have enough in it to make him sick. The strain in his muscles became unbearable, and his skin was paper thin and far too stretched. It might burst if he moved too much. 

His magic curled in on itself, hiding away in the deepest depths of his being. It retreated low into his stomach and sat there like a rock. It offered him no healing aid, no reassurance. It felt so frail and feeble inside of him in comparison to the power he’d felt on the drug.

Pieces of him longed for the moments when his guards would take him from his cell and bring him into the black room, just so he could sit down and rest. He could deal with the screams of the dying, so long as he could rest. He could tune them out . . .

The desire lasted until he actually heard the screaming.

His mind spun, languidly moving from one unfinished thought to the next, all of them forgotten as quickly as they came. He considered provoking the guards to get Mordred, and then provoking Mordred to use his sword despite Morgana’s wishes.

What was the use of this pain, anyway? Or any of it.

The vision of a bright future he saw was not guaranteed, as nothing ever was. Besides, how could any life exist outside of that shadowed cupboard? 

And then, just when he’d get his nerve up, the guards would take him back to the black room, where he’d consider giving Morgana what she wanted in exchange for the Lapis. It would cure him, make him stronger. No one else would have to die. 

He didn’t ask. He didn’t like the person he was when the drug had hold of him: hyper-focused, but dissociated from himself; powerful, but devoid of all reason; efficient, but sadistic. He knew Arthur wouldn’t like him, either.

On the fifth day, Merlin’s fever broke, and he was able to keep down what little food and water he was given without his body rejecting it. But he was exhausted, in body and mind. Despite that, he could not fall asleep in his chains. Every time his mind wandered and the beta waves of sleep flowed through his brain, his leg would kick out and wake him. It would take hours until the adrenaline fully quieted, and the cycle would start again. He only managed to grab threads of fitful sleep. 

But that night, he dreamed. 

Sleep stole over him in a thrash of light and sound. He saw every moment of his life pass before him, and all the days yet to come. He saw Arthur, shining and bright, his hand in Merlin’s. He saw the years and years they might spend together. 

And then he saw the present. The truth.

He was in Morgana’s throne room, sitting on the carpet. Morgana was before him, and alter set between them. She had a dagger in her fist and, when he extended his hand to her, she dragged the blade down his open palm. Drops of blood pooled into a cup. 

Distantly, he heard her speak an enchantment. In flashes, he saw her eyes burn umber and the alter smoulder with smoke, and the light rising from his own skin. 

He felt the heat inside him overtake his body, stealing over him as though he were dipped in honey—until he drowned in it.

And then, slowly, he drifted away from himself, ebbing further into the pool pulling him downward. He was weightless, thoughtless, timeless. There were only the warm bodies of the insects burrowing into the dirt, the wind whispering beneath the wings of the birds, and the coolness of the bedrock at the deepest unknown depths of the oceans. 

And there was no more Merlin. There never had been. What was Merlin but dust? Nothing more than a fleeting thought, gone as soon as it came? The Old Religion was not flesh and blood and bone. Merlin had been trapped in the dark, and now there was only light.

He thought he should have been afraid, but no. The Old Religion did not fear. He would give himself over to it. He would let it consume him. It would take to his bones like fire on dried wood. 

And then there would be nothing left to fear. Nothing left to give. Nothing left to consume. 

Merlin started from sleep without any more flashes of past and future stealing before his eyes. His bones still crackled like furling twigs at the promise of magic, but stone cold fear stole over him at last. 

But he knew what he had to do—to protect Arthur, to end the war. 

He had to offer Morgana his magic. 

And he had to die.


	9. Chapter 9

The room was quiet now—so quiet that the ambient buzzing of the electricity was audible. But, in his mind, Merlin still heard screaming.

Morgana’s latest victim, a teenager no older than seventeen, had lasted a little over an hour. They had left him in there, alone with Merlin, for at least another hour. Now, the only thing left of him was a tiny red pool beneath the chair.

Merlin hung his head, his chin touching his chest. His temples were throbbing with dehydration, and his eyes were dry and stinging. Every muscle was weak. The soreness in his arms was pulsing dully. He didn’t feel any of it. All he felt was numb.

Despite it all, his mind refused to shut down to allow him sleep. It turned and turned, always landing back on that teenage boy. He’d begged Morgana to stop; and, when she hadn’t, he pleaded with Merlin to help him. And Merlin couldn’t, because he was too busy trying to protect someone else. 

Himself. 

His mind kept turning back to his vision. He couldn’t bring himself to make it real. Every time he tried, the words got lodged in his throat. He wasn’t ready. Fifteen hundred years and all the magic of the Old Religion—and still he wasn’t ready. He thought he had been once. That had been before he was happy, and happiness made him selfish.

He’d never felt such guilt for anything he’d done in Arthur’s name. Sometimes, in the beginning, his remorse would eat him up. Gradually, he learned to live with it. This time was different. He couldn’t justify it, no matter how hard he tried. The guilt didn’t tear him to shreds as it used to; perhaps, that, he could have dealt with. But it left him hollow now.

Anything was better than that. 

Behind him, he heard footsteps. Merlin didn’t react as they drew closer, until soon they were right at his back. He was struck by how soft the sound was, not a clack of heels or the stomping of boots. The presence calmed him, and returned some of the warmth to his extremities.

As the figure swept in front of him, Merlin glanced up to find Balinor staring gently down at him. 

“Hello, son,” Balinor said, his voice barely above a whisper, like he was nervous too much noise would harm Merlin.

Merlin felt his eyes burning, and he sniffled before saying, “I couldn’t stop her.” Every word was an apology, coming out in a harsh, cracked voice that was much too dry. “He was just a boy.”

Balinor said nothing, but he looked as though he wished he could place his hand on Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin wished for it, too. He needed some reassurance, some guidance that what he was doing was right. Because it felt very wrong. 

“What do I do, Father?”

Balinor knelt down in front of the chair, and Merlin’s gaze followed him. His eyes were longing and sad, and Merlin wondered if the same expression was reflected back at him. 

“You already know, Merlin. You’ve put things in motion that cannot be undone. The only thing you can do is trust in your destiny.”

Merlin shook his head, his spine rattling and the air too thick to swallow. “I have no destiny. It was set forth by men.”

“That may be true, but the Old Religion is a force of its own,” Balinor told him. “I am proof of that—as are you. Do you really think you could not give your magic to Simon only because he was too weak for it?” 

Merlin’s brows came together in question. He was too tired to discern his father’s meaning. 

“No. The Old Religion is one with you, Emrys. It is not borrowed, like it is in Morgana and Mordred. I told you once before: You cannot lose what you are. Now, you must stop fighting it. You were born for this.” 

Merlin looked down at his lap, the reminder rolling around in his weary mind. He understood what Balinor was saying, just as he knew what his most recent dream from the Crystals was conveying. But he was scared. He wanted to find another way. 

There had to be another way.

He took in a tripping breath, his eyes stinging. “I don’t want to die.”

He did not fear death. He wondered if he ever had. But he did fear taking himself from Arthur’s side. At last, they had time together—and Merlin had to give it up if Arthur had any chance of succeeding. 

But, oh, he wanted to live. He would trade all his lifetimes for this one—for the one he shared with Arthur. He wanted so badly to have it. 

“You will never die, Merlin. Not truly. Not through the Old Religion.”

Merlin wanted to protest, but when he looked up again Balinor was gone.

But it didn’t matter what he wanted. He knew what he had to do. He blinked away his tears. 

The time for fear was over. 

However, before he could formulate a solid plan, the door opened behind him. Merlin assumed it was a guard coming to take him back to his prison for the night. 

But there were multiple footsteps. They moved around him to stand in front of him: Mordred, falling into place on the peripherals of Merlin’s gaze; Morgana, standing by the chair with the wooden chest in her hands; the guard, leading small feet towards Morgana.

Merlin reacted.

He jerked up in a heaving breath like he’d just come up from under water. All feeling returned to him, and it was overwhelmingly painful. A little girl—a child—was being shoved into the chair. She looked around at all the faces before her in innocent terror and confusion.

“No, Morgana, please!” Merlin shouted—or, he tried to. His voice still came out in a rasp. 

The guard was buckling the girl’s small wrists in. She whined and tried to fight, but he easily overpowered her. In his hands, her limbs were as fragile as a doll’s.

“You don’t have to do this!”

“I’m not doing anything,” she reminded him. “I take no pleasure in this. You have the power to stop it.” 

Merlin’s heart crashed against his chest. He couldn’t be responsible for the death of a child. He needed to save her. He needed to buy her time—and he needed to buy himself time. He needed to think.

There must have been another way! There _had_ to be! There _always_ was!

_No_ , he reminded himself. _Sometimes there’s not._

“Very well,” Morgana said, as though his silence had been his response. The guard backed away, and she undid the latch on the chest.

“Wait!” Merlin decided in a gut reaction. Morgana’s fingers hovered. She looked at him, waiting. 

And Merlin realised he didn’t know how to follow that up. He second-guessed himself now. He could do two things: tell her to continue or promise her what she wanted. His eyes fell on the little girl. She looked properly scared now. 

Probably not as scared as he was. 

“I’ll do it,” he said, choosing the latter option. As he spoke, his body did all it could to shut him up. His stomach twisted, his throat closed, his eyes managed to find the last bits of moisture left in him, his limbs shook.

Morgana’s eyes lit up, like she could hardly believe what she’d heard. 

“I’ll give you what you want. Just let her go,” Merlin begged, which Morgana seemed to enjoy very much.

“You will give me your magic?” she said with barely contained glee.

Every instinct told Merlin to fight, but he said, “Yes.”

Morgana paced towards him, completely forgetting the child. “You’ll do whatever I say?”

“Yes.”

“You will betray your king?”

Beneath him, his body was a dead weight. 

“Yes.” 

Something red and razor sharp cut across Morgana’s expression. “Excellent,” she emphasized, and then turned to Mordred. “I need time to prepare the ritual so that I may be strong enough to take on his magic. It should be prepared by midday tomorrow, and once the ritual is complete, I don’t wish to delay. Send out riders immediately to our troops within the provinces. Tell them to make for Winchester. That is where I will detonate the weapon. I want Arthur to witness it. I want him to die with the knowledge that Emrys betrayed him and that Britain has fallen to me.” 

Her gaze, wicked and malicious, fixed on Merlin as she continued, “At dawn, take the army still here on the base and ride for Winchester, too. Emrys and I will join you once his power is mine. He will watch his king die and his city burn.” 

Despite himself, Merlin tightened his jaw to fight back a grin. The base would be empty. York would be undefended. 

Merlin wouldn’t see Arthur die or Britain fall, but he needed Morgana to believe it. So, he let his eyes drop to the floor.

“But first,” Morgana began, and then she leaned in close to Mordred. She whispered something in his ear. Merlin heard only the hissing of her voice, but whatever she said make Mordred start. 

“Morgana, shouldn’t we keep it where it’s safe until we have our victory?”

“No,” Morgana said sternly. “It will be brought to Winchester and put on display. It will remind our troops what they fight for: magic, and eternal life.”

_The Cup_ , Merlin realised. He knew it wasn’t in York. He couldn’t feel its magic nearby, not even when he was dosed with Lapis. He’d wondered where Morgana had hid it away, but it appeared it was going to Winchester. 

Mordred hesitated for a moment, but then bowed his head to her. 

“Now, bring Emrys back to the house and then do as I have said.”

Mordred walked to Merlin and forced him to his feet. The sudden rush made Merlin tipsy, and their faces swam around his vision for a moment. His chains threatened to topple him over. “You’ll free her?” he fought through his daze to ask.

“Don’t worry, Emrys, the girl is free to go,” she assured him. Merlin was determined not to move until he saw the girl leave the room. Knowing a stalemate was counterproductive, Morgana rolled her eyes and said to the guard, “Release her. See she is returned to her owner.”

The guard immediately did as he was told. When the girl was on her feet, he gripped her arm and began dragging her out of the room. As she trotted uncomfortably to keep up with him, she looked over her shoulder to gape at Merlin. There wasn’t any gratitude in her eyes, just the same confusion and fear. She was too young to understand what he’d done for her, what he was about to sacrifice. 

Hopefully, she never would.

On the drive back to Morgana’s residence, Merlin pushed the girl from his mind and focused on what needed to happen next. He had to get a message to Arthur, but there was no time for Cenred to send it. And he didn’t want to risk using magic again. His chains were already digging into chaffed wrists, and he couldn’t give Morgana any more of his power in case his plan didn’t work. Besides, he’d never be able to fall asleep. And there was no way he could know if Arthur was sleeping. 

There was only one hope he had . . . 

Once at the house, Mordred chained Merlin back inside the cupboard under Malcolm’s watchful eyes. He then told Malcolm, “Make sure he’s comfortable. The queen needs him to keep his strength.”

With one last glare directed in Merlin’s direction, Mordred left. Merlin heard the front door slam. 

Malcolm leaned in close, inspecting to chains to ensure they were on tight enough. He seemed satisfied, and stepped back to close the door.

“You have a funny definition of comfort,” Merlin told him. 

Malcolm halted. “Do I?” he retorted like it was a challenge. “All right, your highness, what can I do for you?” 

Merlin tried to swallow. His throat was too dry for it. “I’m thirsty.” 

Malcolm looked truly put upon. He groaned as though Merlin had just asked him to climb Mount Everest. He slammed the door in Merlin’s face, and his footsteps receded. Merlin listened out, and his heart sank after a few moments of utter silence, in which he was certain Malcolm wasn’t returning. But then, he heard footsteps again, and the door opened. 

Malcolm was holding out a half-full glass of water. He jabbed it closer to Merlin. “Open up,” he demanded. Carelessly, he tipped the glass into Merlin’s mouth. A lot of water dribbled down Merlin’s chin, but he managed to get some into his mouth. 

It was cool and fresh and he wanted so badly to swallow it, but he held it between his teeth. When Malcolm pulled the glass away, there was still some water left inside.

“Happy now, your majest—?” 

Merlin spit the water out at him. Malcolm closed his eyes upon impact, and remained still for a few seconds afterward as the droplets swivelled down his face. Presently, he opened his eyes again, and glared lividly. His fist tightened around the glass.

“Still thirsty?” he asked, and kept eye contact as he poured the remaining water onto the floor in front of Merlin’s feet. It splashed up onto the bottom of his jeans and formed a shallow pool on the wood. 

“Enjoy,” Malcolm said. He slammed the door again.

Merlin waited until his footsteps had completely faded, and then for a long time after just to make sure. In the meantime, he tried to relax. He let his legs slacken, despite the strain it put on his arms. He felt the bones warning to snap out of their sockets, but the ache it caused was almost pleasurable. It allowed the knots in his muscles to stretch out.

The sensation caused him more lightheadedness. His consciousness danced on the fuzzy edges of a precipice. He shook his head, trying to regain control.

“Freya,” he whispered to the small pool of water at his feet. He wasn’t certain there was enough water there.

_There has to be._

The chains were beginning to dig into his skin again. He felt a scab open and begin to trickle. He readjusted by putting more weight on his knees. They protested under him.

“Freya, please hear me,” he prayed—the last hope of a desperate man.

The water began to shimmer and ripple. A subdued silver light illuminated the darkness, and Freya’s face appeared. Merlin exhaled in weary relief, and rested his cheek against his arm. “Thank god.”

“Merlin? What’s happened? Where are you?” Freya worried, but at least she had the good grace to not comment on how terrible he must have looked.

“The Neo base. It’s Morgana,” he quickly half-explained. “Freya, I need you to get a message to Arthur.”

“Arthur? How? He cannot see me unless you’re with him,” she told him. 

He shook his head, pleading. “You have to find a way, _please_.”

She pressed her lips together in consideration. She still seemed unsure when she asked, “What’s the message?” 

Merlin grunted as he tried to find a more comfortable position of looking at her. His neck cracked with the slightest movement. He stilled, and powered through.

“Morgana plans to march on Winchester. She’s sent Mordred to collect the troops. In the meantime, the base will be nearly deserted. Its defences will be down. Morgana will be vulnerable without the army here,” he told her as clearly as he could. “Arthur will be able to take the base while they’re gone, but he has to hurry. It _has_ to be tomorrow morning.”

The strain in his muscles no longer gave him relief. It was making it difficult to breathe, and all of the air in his lungs was being used to warn Arthur. He panted as though he’d run a race, and said again, “Freya, he has to hurry.”

Merlin blinked rapidly. Freya was quickly going in and out of focus. His head spun. He could feel himself slipping away, and he tried his best to fight it. 

“Morgana will still be at the base,” Freya’s voice echoed in his mind. “She will destroy Arthur’s troops.”

“No, I will deal with Morgana,” he promised, and tried and failed to shake his head. “Go, Freya. Find Arthur.” His vision was darkening. It wasn’t warm and comforting like sleep. It was unconsciousness—as cold as death. He’d find no solace in it, no rest. 

“Find Arthur,” he breathed out. “Go. Tell him . . .”

He wasn’t sure who faded away first, him or Freya.

 

///

 

Arthur must have drifted off while reading Merlin’s journal. He’d left off some time during the beginning of the War, right when the first bomb had been dropped on Russia. It was the last thing he remembered before he was suddenly in the middle of the Forest of Ascetir, sprawled out on a picnic blanket with a full belly and Merlin beside him. It was early spring, and bright yellow birds were dancing about Merlin and singing a song as Arthur watched the beams of sunlight kiss his skin.

And then, quite suddenly, there was a rumbling in the distance. Arthur sat up, listening out. It sounded like a stampede. Merlin didn’t seem to notice. He was too focused on the birds. 

The rumbling became louder and closer, and Arthur realised he was dreaming. Arthur was certain it had been the sound that pulled him from sleep. It continued on in the waking world. He jerked up quickly, causing Merlin’s journal to fall to the side of him.

At first, he thought it was an earthquake, but the ground wasn’t shaking. It was something smaller. 

He looked around wildly until he pinpointed the source of the sound: the dresser across the room. A silver glow was coming from one of the top drawers. Arthur unsheathed his sword hanging from the poster board and sprang to his feet. Carefully, one foot in front of the other, he paced to the dresser. His eyes stayed fixed on the glowing cracks lining the drawer, and held his sword at the ready.

He paused when he reached it, his weariness turning to fear. One of the pictures on the top of the dresser toppled over. The floor was vibrating under Arthur’s feet now. He looked uncertainly at his sword. It was too big to use on anything inside. Slowly, he placed it on the floor, not trusting to put it on top of the dresser, and snatched the dagger on top. 

With a deep, steadying breath, he ripped the drawer open. He winced in the light he’d let out, and blinked fast to right himself. When his eyes adjusted and he saw what was inside, his stomach lurched. It was even worse than he’d feared.

The hourglass filled with Avalon’s waters was glowing intensely in a silver light. It continued to rattle, and the liquid inside sloshed ferociously.

Arthur didn’t know how to make it stop. More than anything, he wanted to close the drawer again and leave the room. He didn’t want to touch it. He wished Merlin were there. Merlin would know what it meant. 

Tentatively, he picked up the hourglass. Its quick movements rattled the bones in his hand. He tried to tighten his grip to keep his hold and peer into it, but the vibrations quickened. He dropped it, and scrambled to save it before the glass shattered on the hardwood and the contents spooled out.

“No!” he shouted, dropping to his knees. He hovered his hands over the mess, desperately struggling with his instincts to stay away from the water and his need to salvage whatever was left. When Merlin got back, he’d be upset that Arthur had broken it. Arthur couldn’t let Merlin be sad because of him—not anymore. 

The light of the water became less intense. It twinkled, and the rivulets began to move in spidery paths along the wood, as though flowing downhill, despite the fact that the floor was level. Arthur narrowed his eyes at it, watching in mystification. The water flowed away from the broken shards and converged a few inches away, forming a pool. 

A woman’s face faded into view. Her complexion was pale against the silver light. Her dark eyes spoke of far too much sadness for such a young face, but they still held within them a soft kindness. They reminded him so much of Merlin that it made him ache. He instantly trusted the woman, so much so that he consciously had to remind him that he didn’t know who or what she was. 

What good, after all, could come from the waters of Avalon? 

“Arthur,” she said, her voice gentle. “We meet at last. My name is Freya.”

Arthur echoed the name in a whisper. Merlin’s old love from Camelot.

“Merlin sent me. He has an urgent message for you.” 

Arthur’s eyes snapped back into focus upon hearing Merlin’s name. He might have grinned had the moment not been dyer. Merlin always found a way to communicate with him when Arthur needed a warning. Arthur just wished Merlin had been the one to bring the message. He needed to see Merlin again, if only for a moment. Merlin would keep him fighting.

“What is it?”

He’d been jealous of Freya before, when he’d first heard of her. He thought maybe Merlin still loved her. Now, it was hard to think that way, when Freya was trying to help them communicate. Merlin, too, kept fighting—and it wasn’t for Freya. 

Freya told him of Morgana’s army coming to Winchester, of Mordred collecting their troops, of the base’s vulnerability. Finally, it was his chance to weaken the Neos’ forces. If he took their base, it would give him the advantage. Merlin knew it, and Arthur trusted him, but there was a flaw. 

“I can’t lead my army into Morgana’s camp. She’ll have us all where she wants us,” Arthur tried to reason with himself, though part of him recklessly didn’t care. He wanted to take the risk. He wanted to bring Merlin home. But he didn’t want to sacrifice anyone to do it. “If she sets off the bomb, there will be nothing standing in her way to the throne.”

“Merlin believes he can distract Morgana,” Freya told him. “He said he’d take care of her.” 

Arthur’s gut turned. Merlin’s “distractions” had never been the best. They were either too weak or much too grand, and usually a lot of people died. “How?” he worried.

Freya shook her head apologetically. “He did not say. But you must trust him.”

Arthur let out a breath and considered. He nodded sternly. Of course, he trusted Merlin; he always had, and he wasn’t about to stop now.

“But you have to hurry, Arthur. You must find him.” She worried at her lower lip, and added sheepishly, “He had that look on his face.”

All the colour drained from Arthur’s. “What look?” 

“The one that suggests he’s about to do something stupid.”

Arthur dropped his shoulders. He knew that look. “So, his normal look.” 

Freya didn’t confirm or deny it. She merely said, the urgency back in her voice, “Go. You must march on the base tomorrow morning if you are to be victorious.” 

Arthur’s pulse raced. He could hear the blood sloshing in his ears, coursing through him. His skin hummed with dread and exhilaration. His heart mourned for those about to die, and his head worried for the many more who would die if not for their sacrifice. It was an old sensation—the feeling of war. It was never a decision he took lightly, but the weight settling on his chest was a necessary burden. 

“Thank you,” he told Freya. 

“Until we meet again,” she promised, and he tried not to be disheartened as he watched her fade back into the waters of Avalon. Hopefully, he thought, they wouldn’t meet again too soon.

He leapt into action, leaving the water behind and starting into the corridor. He raced through the manor, down the stairs, and towards the other wing of the house. Along the way, Archie had joined him. The cat trotted after him, frequently glancing up at Arthur and meowing loudly as though demanding to know what was going on. 

“Mr. Ainsworth?” Arthur called when he reached the servants’ corridor. He knocked hard on the door to Ainsworth’s apartment, and called his name a few times. 

Quickly, other doors up and down the hall swung open, and the bed-addled staff peeked their heads out in question. Ainsworth’s door opened so quickly that Arthur nearly punched the butler in the face as he continued to knock. 

“Sir?” Ainsworth asked, still groggy in his pyjamas. Agnes, Ainworth’s wife and the manor’s head cook, appeared over his shoulder. She was hastily tying the rope on her dressing gown.

Arthur was sorry for waking them, but now was not the time to say so. “I need you to send word to the members of council. Tell them to get to the Great Hall immediately for an emergency meeting. And have my knights prepare the troops to move out.”

Ainsworth did not ask a single question. “Right away, sir,” he said, and pushed past Arthur into the corridor. He rushed down it a disappeared from sight. The other servants watched him go, and their worried whispers rose up until they filled the corridor to the brim. One of the maids put her arms around her son in a protective way, as though war was at their doorstep.

_It is_ , Arthur reminded himself.

“Will you be needing anything else, sir?” Agnes asked, controlling her fear.

“Yes,” Arthur said, turning back to her. “Get me my armour.”

 

///

 

Night had fallen by the time Mordred reached Full Sutton Prison. He held a torch out before him, its beam of light reflecting off the cracked cement of the floors and the dusty bars of the abandoned cells. Cockroaches scurried away from the pool of light when he flashed it towards the stairs of the cellblock.

He made his way to the lower level, and saw a dim white light on the far end of the corridor. He made for it, signalling his arrival as he drew nearer.

Two guards, armed with assault rifles, were on either side of the barred cell at the end of the block. They’d been told of Mordred’s arrival an hour earlier, and therefore did not point their weapons at him. They stepped aside to grant Mordred access to the cell.

Mordred looked at the wall around the gate, and all the protective runes and curses etched into the cement. He uttered a spell in the Old Religion, and the symbols burned gold as they disarmed. Then, he held out his hand to the bars and spoke another spell. It had no key entrusted to the guards, and no physical lock to open. Only the Old Religion would grant access into the cell. 

When the bars creaked open, Mordred stepped inside. The old, unused items of the cell were still inside: a cot for sleeping, a slab jutting out of the wall and a stool built into the floor beneath it, a toilet, and a tin sink with a filthy mirror above it.

A table, small and wooden but newer and cleaner than anything else in the cell, had been placed inside, too. The Cup of Life was placed on top of it. Its metal glinted silver against the light of Mordred’s torch.

Carefully, he picked it up and inspected it closely. It had been months since he’d held it—months since he used it to bring Morgana back from the dead. It was a powerful thing, not created to destroy, but to bring life, to prolong it, to ensure it never ended. Mordred wasn’t certain he’d wished to live forever. After all, he considered what immortality had done to Merlin, and thought he’d rather not become a weak, jaded, creature living in the darkness. 

But the Cup gave the promise of a better life for Morgana’s followers. It had given them strength, and they would use it to serve their queen forever.

They would win. Morgana would fulfil her destiny. She would not have to dwell in the darkness for much longer. 

She would be free, he told himself, even if Mordred could never see that day for himself, even if Arthur’s destruction meant his own. Morgana would have her victory. It was only a matter of time. 

He looked into the Cup, at the blood inside, tinted black by the shadows of the prison. Slowly, Mordred tipped the Cup, and watched the blood slide towards the rim. His breath caught and his pulse quickened, but then the liquid reached the rim and stopped. It did not spill from the goblet.

Logically, Mordred knew the magic of the Cup would not allow the contents inside it to spill. It would take much more powerful magic to overturn it. Still, Mordred wanted to make sure. He still questioned Morgana’s decision to take it from its hiding place, but he would follow her orders. 

But that didn’t mean he would let the Cup of Life out of his sight. The safest place for it was in his hands.

So, he tied it to his belt, securing it close to his waist next to his gun with the magical bullets inside.

He started from the cell, and headed back down the corridor. Now relieved of their post, the two guards followed after him. The burden of protecting the Cup fell to Mordred now, as it had all those months ago, back when all of it began.

 

///

 

Arthur was already mobilizing the army by the time the last of the committee members reached Winchester at two in the morning. The barracks were abuzz with soldiers loading the rovers and preparing to move out. Lancelot, along with the rest of the knights, had been summoned to the Great Hall to take part on the war committee meeting.

When they arrived, Arthur was already explaining the message Merlin had sent him. Everyone was already gathered: the committee and their advisors, Gwen and Gaius, and the Druid chiefs and their counsellors. Lancelot caught Gwen’s eyes as he moved around the table. Her expression was stern, as it always was before the army was sent into battle. It was the face of a queen. However, when she saw Lancelot, some of that demeanour slipped. She pressed her lips together and softened her eyes, silently wishing him luck on the journey ahead. 

If what Arthur was saying were true, they wouldn’t need very much luck at all. 

“The base is practically empty. Our scouts can confirm that. If there was ever a time to take York, it’s now, when she’s undefended. With the Neo Territory under our control, their army will have no set location to rally.” 

“That could draw them here,” Lord Protector Owen said, “or to one of the other provinces.”

“But their supplies will be cut off,” Simmons reasoned. “Arthur’s right. We won’t find a better opportunity than this. We’ve been planning this attack for months, only looking for the best time to execute it. That’s now. We all know our roles.”

Arthur gestured towards her in thanks. “I can have word sent to Cenred tonight. He’ll rally his people for a revolt tomorrow morning. They will draw whatever soldiers are left on the base to the main gate. We’ll show up and aid them, both in taking the base and causing a distraction while I search for Merlin.” 

“Alone?” the Commissioner asked, raising a brow in scepticism.

Arthur looked at his men, and at one in particular. “Not alone.”

Lancelot had not been picked for the mission, but he did not mind, so long as Merlin was returned safely. If Arthur thought he was better served at the gate taking the base, he would not refuse his orders. 

“We shouldn’t take too many of our numbers from Winchester,” said Darby. “If Morgana’s moved her army from York, they could only be preparing for a fight. The city can’t be left undefended.”

“It won’t be,” Arthur told him. “We’ll need at most two hundred soldiers—maybe not even that much. We’ll know more when our scouts return. The rest will remain here and guard Winchester, as will the druids. Aurora and her tribe will accompany me, but that is all.” 

The matter seemed settled, but then Gwen asked, “And you’re certain this Freya can be trusted, Arthur? This isn’t one of Morgana’s tricks?”

_Freya_. Lancelot stood to attention at the mention of the name. He remembered the ghost’s kind eyes in the water pipe break at the factory in London. He took a step forward and cleared his throat, attracting the room’s attention.

“It’s no trick. I’ve met Freya myself. I spoke to her once when she came to Merlin. She can be trusted.” 

Gwen seemed satisfied, but Arthur gave Lancelot a curious glance, no doubt wondering what Freya had said to Merlin during the conversation all those months ago. At once, Lancelot regretted speaking up. He prayed Arthur wouldn’t question him about it, as he wasn’t certain he could lie. Still, he didn’t want to betray Merlin’s trust. 

“If we’re all ready, I will leave to give the soldiers their orders,” Arthur then said, turning away from Lancelot. “Leon will ensure word is sent to Cenred and he is prepared for our arrival. The rest of you are welcome to stay in Winchester tonight.” 

No one protested, and Arthur nodded. Ever so briefly, his eyes flickered to the empty chair next to him at the Round Table. “Good. Let’s bring the king consort home.”


	10. Chapter 10

It was morning by the time Merlin regained consciousness. He hummed awake, finding himself wrapped in warmth and softness. He burrowed deeper into it, dreaming he was back in his own bed at the manor, Arthur beside him. However, when he reached his arm out, expecting to wrap it around Arthur’s firm torso, still breathing gently in sleep, he found empty sheets.

He remembered where he was, and blinked his eyes opened. The bedroom he’d once called his prison cell swam into focus. The curtains were open, letting the bright morning sunshine in. On the end of the bed, a fresh tan bath towel had been folded and a bar of soap sat on top of it. Across the room, the door was wide open, leading out into the hall.

Merlin sat up, looking around and wondering who had put him in the bed—and why. He listened out for anyone milling about the house, but didn’t hear anything but white noise. 

He rubbed his eyes, pushing the sleep from them, and realised his chains weren’t weighing him down. His cuffs were still on his wrist, but this was considerably more freedom than he’d had in what felt like an eternity. 

He sniffed tiredly and threw the blankets off his legs. The hardwood floor was chilly when his bare feet hit it, and he wondered what had happened to his faded old boots. He liked those boots. He’d lived in them for years. They were nothing compared to the ones he’d worn in Camelot—which he sometimes thought of fondly and recalled how heartbroken he’d been when they finally fell apart beyond repair—but he still didn’t want to part with them. 

And then he remembered that, in a few hours, none of that would really matter anymore, anyway.

With that thought, he had half a mind to go back to bed and avoid the day altogether.

By some force of will, or perhaps the anxiety wishing for him to get it over with already, he picked up the towel and soap and padded to the door. Once there, he peered out in to the hallway, and didn’t see Malcolm or another guard standing post. He wondered if he was truly alone.

He crossed to the bathroom and turned on the shower, and waited until steam rose and the mirror fogged over before stripping and stepping under the stream. He sighed as the water reddened his skin; he breathed in the humidity until he was lightheaded. 

When the water hit his chapped and raw wrists, it stung at first, causing him to grit his teeth. However, the pain soon ebbed into pleasure, and then he got used to the sensation as the water cleaned his wounds. He dunked his head beneath the shower and let it soak his hair and run down his nose.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’s enjoyed a shower so much, and he remained still beneath the water, letting it seep into his muscles, for longer than he should have. For a moment, he felt human again, and he realised he was feeling much better than he had been in weeks. His thoughts weren’t sluggish, his fingers weren’t fidgeting, and his stomach wasn’t turning. Finally, the Lapis had completely drained from his system. The only traces of it left were the bruising on his arm. 

He chuckled aloud a little at the irony, but tried not to dwell too much on what he was about to do. 

Instead, he thought of Arthur, and of the British forces on their way to the Neo base. Merlin closed his eyes and reached his magic out, searching for Arthur. He was close by. He’d been in York in just under and hour. 

Merlin couldn’t linger in the shower for much longer. Time was of the essence. 

He turned the water off and ran his fingers through his hair to shake off the excess droplets. He wrapped his towel around his waist and reached for his clothing on the sink, but found they were no longer there. He paused, and glanced around the floor to see if they’d dropped. 

They were nowhere.

He hadn’t heard anyone come in while he was shower, but he’d been so absorbed in his own thoughts, he might have missed it. He looked back into the hallway, and heard bacon popping in the kitchen. Now that he was out of the steamy bathroom, the scent of it immediately arrested him. His stomach grumbled and his mouth watered on instinct. His less reflexive instincts questioned why Morgana was going through such trouble to make him comfortable. 

He crossed to his room again and slowly, silently shut the door behind him. Laid out on the bed, he found new clothes: dark, pressed jeans and a black button up shirt. His boots were there, too; they were cleaned of all the mud that had been caked onto them.

Quickly, Merlin finished drying off and dressed. He somehow wasn’t surprised that the clothes fit.

He was about to leave the room again, but paused. He remembered his journals—all those many leather bound, brittle and yellowed pages that told the story of his life. He hadn’t written in them very much since Arthur’s return. He meant to, promising that he’d leave some documentation depicting the actual events this time around—not the fairytales imaginative minds construed, like the last time.

There was no time for that now. And Merlin hadn’t written the journals for the world, anyway. He’d written them for Arthur, and there was one last thing Merlin had to say to him. 

He went to the nightstand and pulled open one of the drawers, looking for paper and something to write with. They were empty. He sighed, half giving up, until his eyes travelled to the blank white wall opposite the bed. He paced toward it, placing his flat palm onto it. He closed his eyes and thought of what he wanted to say. 

The cuff glowed in gold, and he let his arm drop when the light faded.

He stepped back and looked at the words carved into the plaster. He thought of all those years he’d wanted his life to end, and what words he’d leave behind, if any, to make sense of it all. Now, he didn’t want to die, but he supposed this was it: his note. And he wasn’t even certain Arthur would find it.

It would be fitting. After all, Arthur never read any of Merlin’s journals, anyway. 

Merlin made for the kitchen to find Malcolm scooping eggs and bacon onto a plate. Despite all the hospitality Merlin had experienced that morning, Malcolm’s stare was icy and irate when he met Merlin’s. He slammed the plate onto the breakfast table. 

“Eat,” he said curtly. “The queen wants your strength up for the ritual.” 

Merlin realised that must have been what all this was about. He’d never considered that Morgana was just being generous, and he supposed he was right not to. 

Half of him resisted, not wanting to give in to Morgana’s demands, but the other half took one look at the food and urged him towards it. As far as last meals went, he probably wouldn’t have chosen eggs and bacon. He wasn’t certain what he would have picked. He thought maybe he’d choose one of his so called “favourites” that Gaius used to whip up for him. It would have barely been edible, and Merlin wouldn’t have enjoyed a single bite, but it would have given him the boost of confidence he needed for what was to come.

Still, eggs and bacon would have to do. He did his best to savour every morsel, which wasn’t too hard. He was either very hungry or Malcolm was a decent cook, but Merlin wasn’t about to tell him that. 

After breakfast, Malcolm attached the chains back onto Merlin shackles and led him out the door to the car. Merlin breathed in the fresh morning air. Summer was so desperately trying to break through, and Merlin wondered if it would ever be allowed to—if it would be the will of the Old Religion. He hoped so. 

As they drove out of Morgana’s gate, down the hill, and through the neighbourhood outside the base, Merlin took in everything: the trees, the fluffy cumulonimbus clouds towering high in the impossibly azure sky, the children playing in the front gardens, and the mothers pushing buggies down the street. His eyes flittered across the moving picture streaming before him, and he wondered what it was like to live in a home with family to call his own, to be domestic and secure and content. He’d experienced so much in his long life, but never that. 

Never that.

As they neared the back gate into the base, the sound of a whirring alarm broke him out of his thoughts. He heard someone mutter something into the radio in Malcolm’s ear, but couldn’t pinpoint any specific words. Not that he needed to.

Once in the base, Malcolm did not diverge from his path, but a few jeeps sped around them on the road. The base was mostly empty, but Merlin spotted a group of soldiers rushing in the same direction as the cars—towards the main gate. Cenred’s revolt was already under way. 

“Wonder what all that’s about,” Merlin said innocently as his heart beat in excitement. Malcolm didn’t say anything. He only looked back at Merlin through the rear view mirror with disapproving eyes.

When they reached the building that held Morgana’s throne room, Malcolm got out his rifle and manhandled Merlin out of the car. “Follow me,” he demanded, and started up the stairs of the building. Merlin followed, and cast one last look at the sky before the doors closed behind him.

His feet followed after Malcolm towards the throne room, but his mind was elsewhere—with Arthur. He was outside the base, waiting to make his move. Arthur wouldn’t fight with the army as they took control of the base. He would go looking for Merlin, and Merlin would ensure he got to where he had to go. 

Merlin wouldn’t be there when he showed up, if all went according to plan, and he hoped Arthur would someday forgive him for that; but Arthur could still have his victory. He could end the war. He could kill Morgana. He could become king again and rule like he was meant to. 

Merlin nearly stilled at the thought as his heartstrings plucked longingly. He realised he wouldn’t get to see Arthur crowned again. He shook the emotion away. He couldn’t allow it.

Making sure Malcolm was still facing ahead, Merlin internalized an incantation. His eyes burned, as did his cuffs. Then, a small white-blue light shimmered with swimming light in the palm of his hand. He extinguished it, but sent his magic forward. He would not be able to control the energy without it in his palm, but he focused on Arthur, and knew the magic would find him soon enough. It would guide Arthur to where he needed to be.

The doors of the throne room were before them when Malcolm’s fingers touched the radio in his ear again. Someone was speaking into it. Merlin suppressed a smirk. Arthur had made his move.

Malcolm opened the doors, ushering Merlin through. Morgana was inside, standing before the long table with various herbs and flowers spread out on the surface. She turned to greet them, and Merlin almost had to glance away at the sight of her. She looked immaculate in a silk black dress that swept the floor. Her lips were stained red, and her hair fell in currents around her ivory shoulders. Apparently, she’d wanted them both to look their best for the occasion. 

“Welcome, Emrys,” she said, but her tone was steely. Merlin saw she was crushing the herbs in a bowl. “Not to worry. I’ll be with you shortly. I just have to prepare the final ingredients.” She gestured towards the throne, and Merlin followed her line of vision to the alter set up on the floor in front of the chair.

His chest constricted like a cold fist, and a stone formed in his throat. It was so easy to pretend this moment would never come. 

The moment he died. 

He told himself it wasn’t death—not really. In fact, now, he truly would live forever through the Old Religion. He would become its true conduit, one in the same with it until the end of time. He would be the heartbeat of every living creature with their feet on the earth, the deep depths of the waters, and the summer wind whispering through Arthur’s hair. He would be all of it, but not himself. Not Merlin. He wondered if he’d even remember who Merlin was.

It felt like death. 

He closed his eyes for a long pause, staying the pressure building up behind them. 

In the darkness, he heard Malcolm say, “My queen. A word?” 

Merlin felt Malcolm move towards her, and heard him say in hushed tones, “The slaves are revolting by the main gate. It seems this was planned. They’ve had help. Cenred is leading them.” 

“Cenred?” Morgana hissed. “I’ll have his head!”

“That’s not all. Our scouts saw British troops headed here. They have at least three hundred soldiers, and we don’t even have half of that on the base since Mordred left. And, Morgana, Arthur is with them.”

Merlin opened his eyes. He wouldn’t miss Morgana’s reaction for the world.

All colour had drained from her, making her skin pallid and the red of her lips look like blood by contrast. Her eyes were wide. “How long until they get here?”

“Ten minutes,” Malcolm told her. “We would have seen them sooner if we had more scouts on the base.”

Morgana’s gaze flickered to Merlin, and then hardened. She spoke at a normal volume, her voice calm and taunting, as she said, “No matter. None of this will be an issue in mere minutes. Be sure to give our guests a grand welcome in the meantime.” 

Malcolm nodded, understanding. “And the king?” 

Morgana’s eyes didn’t leave Merlin. “Send word to your men to arrest my dear brother and bring him to me. Emrys can watch as I kill his precious king.” 

Merlin tightened his jaw, his fists along with it. He reminded himself that Morgana wouldn’t get her way, so long as she began her ritual now.

Malcolm bowed his head and started for the doors. He offered Merlin one last scowl before passing him. The doors closed behind him.

“Have a seat,” Morgana told Merlin, and picked up the bowl. She indicated the alter near her throne. Merlin crossed towards it and sat on one side. There were three bowls identical to the one Morgana was holding already set up. They were aligned in a triangle shape. One bowl had fresh and fragrant moss inside, another had water tinted black by the ceramic, and the other was empty, holding air only. In the centre on the triangle, the druid triskelion was painted in gold on the floor. 

A pale candle was placed in the middle of the symbol. A knife rested nest to it. Just to the left of the symbol was a silver goblet but, Merlin reflected, not the one that had started this whole mess. 

Morgana sat across the alter from Merlin and placed the bowl of herbs before her crossed legs, completing the diamond shape. She levelled her palm over the bowl and spoke a word in the ancient tongue. The herbs began to smoke and come alight. The wick of the candle, too, burst into life. 

“I suppose you have something to do with Arthur showing up on my doorstep today of all days,” she accused.

Merlin raised his brow at her and deadpanned, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

She hummed into a condescending smile. “Oh, Emrys, don’t you see you’ve only killed Arthur by bringing him here? It’s too late to save your own pathetic life.” Her smile twisted into a sneer.

“Would you really kill Mordred to have your crown?”

Her expression didn’t waver. “There’s no need to spin any more of your lies. You’ve already lost.” 

Merlin found that quite presumptuous. 

He told her, “There’s still time.”

 

///

 

Arthur’s jeep had been in the middle of the caravan, and was empty but for himself and Gwaine. While everyone else would fight for control of the Neo base, the two of them would search for Merlin. But, as Arthur saw the series of buildings and the maze of roads within the base, he knew merely searching would take more time that was afforded to him.

He drove through the throng outside the gate, bypassing his troops engaged with the Neos who had already flocked to the base’s perimeter. Once inside, he saw the slave uprising in full swing. They had managed to get a hold of Neo weapons, but they weren’t fighters and Arthur wondered how long they would last without his army backing them up. 

Cenred was amongst them, and he waved down Arthur’s jeep when he spotted it.

Arthur pulled the car next to Cenred and rolled down the window. Cenred leaned his head inside, and Arthur wasted no time before asking, “Where are Merlin and Morgana?”

“She’s been keeping him a prisoner in her private residence,” was the answer. Cenred pointed down the street. “Follow the road out of the base and head straight up the hill. The house will be set apart from the others. A fence surrounds it.”

Arthur nodded his thanks, and Cenred turned to join the fray. He turned to Gwaine in the passenger seat, who was already preparing for a fight. 

“Keep an eye out for guards as we get closer to the residence.”

However, as they drove from the base, through the barracks, and up the hill, they were met only with the deserted street. Not a single soul was waiting along the outer walls of the homes, nor did a rover pass in the opposite direction, speeding towards the base.

The gate to Morgana’s residence was open when they reached it, and there was no guard in the checkpoint booth.

“Where is everyone?” Gwaine mumbled, voicing Arthur’s thoughts. 

Arthur worried Merlin wasn’t there. He prayed Morgana wasn’t, but it was unlikely he’d find one without the other.

“One way to find out,” he said as the tyres ground to a halt on the drive. He readied his sword and jerked open the car door. Next to him, Gwaine took out his gun, loaded with Dagnija’s bullets. 

Arthur twirled his sword in his wrist, getting a feel for it again. The movement flowed naturally, like second nature. The blade seemed to sing to him. It was an extension of himself, as a part of him as his limbs, as if his veins expanded into it and his blood coursed through the steel. It felt good to wield it again.

He started up the porch, and Gwaine followed.

They paused at the door, both of them preparing for what they might find inside. Arthur’s stomach turned at the thought of seeing Merlin again. It was one thing to see him in dreams, when even Arthir’s arm was healed and everything was made new. It was another thing to see the reality of all Merlin had been going through. Arthur worried he wouldn’t know how to help. 

It didn’t matter. He’d find a way. He’d bring Merlin home, hold him in his arms again. He’d never let go of him. 

“Ready?” Gwaine asked, and the single word spoke of all his fears in seeing the horrors his friend had faced these last months. It spoke, too, of the resolve to rescue him. Arthur knew he’d picked his companion well. Gwaine’s presence reassured him.

“Ready.”

They kicked in the door, and the bolt lock flew off the frame. Their weapons raised, they rushed into the parlour room—to find it empty.

Arthur looked around the dimmed light of the house, and clocked a kitchen on one side and a short hallway on the other. He motioned for Gwaine to take the kitchen, and then quietly padded towards the hallway. 

He ripped open the first door he found—a bedroom that must have been Morgana’s, if the vanity mirror was anything to go by. It was empty. He checked the bathroom and tore open the door to the barren cupboard and found them in the same state. He sighed and lowered his sword, letting his pumping adrenaline settle. However, his fear rose. Merlin wasn’t there. So, where could he be? 

The next door had a series of unlatched locks and bolts on the outside. Arthur’s jaw clamped when he realised who must have occupied the space for the past months. However, again, no one was there.

He went inside anyway, pacing slowly as he peered around Merlin’s prison cell. Arthur had expected worse from Morgana, in truth, but he didn’t forget the torture Merlin must have endured while in her grasp. He turned to leave the room when something on the wall caught his eyes. There were words etched into it. Arthur squinted at it, his eyes adjusting to the familiar lines and curves. It looked like Merlin’s handwriting.

He moved closer to it and brushed his fingers against the markings. 

_I never wanted to run away, but that’s all I’ve ever done. I ran away from Ealdor when my mother thought my magic would be found out; I ran from Camelot when the city fell. I ran away from England when I thought you weren’t coming back. And so on, and so on._

_I never knew what I was running from. And, the first time, I didn’t know what I was running towards._

_Now I do._

_I was running away from this—from what’s about to happen. And I can’t run anymore. I wish I could, one more time, because I’d run to you. Like I always have._

_But you stay put, my king, my soul. Live, for a long time. And forgive me. Or don’t. Just as long as you live._

_I’m sorry, Arthur._  

Arthur found himself gasping. He stepped back and read the note again, just to make sure he wasn’t imagining it.

He heard Merlin’s name fall from his lips in a whisper. Panic swelled inside him.

He would not _stay put_. 

He rushed from the room.

“Gwaine!” 

By the time he met Gwaine back in the parlour, the fear found an outlet in anger. “They aren’t here!”

“You noticed that, too, eh?”

“Now’s not the time for jokes, Gwaine. They could be anywhere! We need to find him—now!” 

Arthur tried to tell himself there was still time. Merlin wasn’t dead. He knew it. He could feel it.

“We’ll find him,” Gwaine assured, his voice soothing against Arthur’s anger, which dwindled slowly back into terror. “She must’ve taken him somewhere else, right? Somewhere on the base. There’s no chance she saw us coming and had time to run.”

Arthur swallowed hard, praying that was true. 

“She must have a hall or an office or—,” he squinted and took a cursory look around the room, as if some clue were laid on the coffee table, “maybe a throne room?" 

“We don’t have time to search the whole base.” In fact, they might have been out of time already. He didn’t know if he could stop Merlin from doing whatever it was he was about to do. 

Still, they didn’t have another option. He decided they would return to the base and find one of Cenred’s men who might know where Morgana’s usual haunts were. “We’d better get moving,” he began to say when Gwaine’s expression hardened.

Gwaine was looking over Arthur’s shoulder. He raised his gun in the defensive. Immediately, Arthur’s fist tightened around his sword, and he spun around the face the hallway. From it, a pale blue light glowed off the white walls. When Arthur’s eyes adjusted, he realised it was an orb, light flowing like liquid within it, hovering about five feet from the floor. 

His eyes narrowed at the light. He recognised it.

It was a memory—a very old memory. He reached back, trying to find it. 

The light ebbed closer to them until it was in the parlour. 

“Could be one of Morgana’s tricks,” Gwaine said, the point of his gun following the light. “Does look a little like her bomb.”

Arthur shook his head, staring in wonder at the orb. Its presence relaxed him, seeping into his skin and settling into his bones. He felt it in his chest. It wasn’t a trick. It wasn’t evil. It was protection. It was a guide. 

He remembered where he’d seen it before.

“No,” he whispered. “It’s Merlin.”

It felt like Merlin. When Arthur closed his eyes, he imagined Merlin standing next to him. How had he not sensed it the first time? How had he not known? Was he really so stubborn in his youth?

“How do you know?”

Arthur opened his eyes. “I know.”

Merlin had found Arthur and was leading him to where he was. When all Arthur’s hope was lost, Merlin had found a way to revive him. And maybe Merlin wasn’t rushing towards death now, either; maybe he wanted Arthur to get there in time to save him. 

Arthur trusted him enough to follow the light blindly. 

As if it could read his thoughts, the light gently floated towards the door. It disappeared through the wood, moving outside. 

The spell broken, Arthur’s heart raced, telling him not to lose it.

“Follow it! It will lead us to Merlin.”

Arthur bound towards the door and ripped it open, not bothering to close it as he rushed down the porch steps. Gwaine followed. 

The orb began moving faster, heading down the drive. Arthur got into the car and tore after it, barely waiting for Gwaine to slam his door shut beforehand. 

The dancing light brought them back through the back gate of the base, steering them away from the brunt of the fighting, until it led them to a round about outside the largest building Arthur had seen on the base so far. It had Morgana written all over it. If she had taken Merlin anywhere, it was inside.

The orb hovered on the steps outside the building before fading into nothing. 

Arthur closed his eyes and searched for the touch of Merlin’s magic on his skin. He thought he could feel it—but only lightly, like a feather streaked across the back of his wrist. His skin prickled to it. 

“You think they’re in there?” Gwaine asked, peering out the window at the building. His gaze scanned the training pitch and road beyond, searching for any armed guards. The area appeared to be quiet. Arthur thought maybe the fight at the gate had drawn the Neo army, as was intended. Cenred had done well in creating the distraction.

“Merlin wouldn’t have led us here if he wasn’t inside.” Arthur opened his door and slid out of the car. He unsheathed his sword and kept it at the ready. His other hand itched towards the antique shotgun on his belt, but he let it be. He only had one bullet left from the last time he’d met Morgana, and he didn’t want to waste it on the Neos. 

Gwaine had a gun of his own, a military grade weapon with smaller magical bullets and sleeker handling. He held it between his fists and swayed it this way and that in case an enemy soldier appeared out of the woodwork.

“Clear,” Gwaine reported, lowering his gun. He turned back to Arthur. “Why wouldn’t Morgana have any guards on her, if she’s in there?”

“The base is nearly empty. Mordred took most of their soldiers. They needed all their arms at the gate.” 

Gwaine seemed to accept the answer, but he still had one last complaint as he squinted at the large building, full of windows and various rooms. “Merlin couldn’t have led us the room he’s in?” 

Arthur gritted his teeth, not wanting to admit he agreed with Gwaine. “We’ll find him.” He walked around the car and started towards the steps. Gwaine fell in stride beside them. 

But, before they reached the bottom stair, the doors of the building slammed open, and four men in uniform rushed through. They carried swords, but Arthur couldn’t spot a gun between them. He considered they were guards, not soldiers. 

“You were saying?” Gwaine taunted, a smirk on his face.

Arthur rolled his eyes, and the pair of them charged to meet the guards.

Before anything substantial began, Gwaine fired a shot at one of the guards. He burst into ash that floated down to the steps. The others were upon them before Gwaine could fire again. 

Arthur’s sword met one of the guard’s at an angle. The guard was still a few steps above him, trying to bring his blade down on Arthur’s head. Keeping his opponent’s sword locked with his, Arthur circled his blade to the side and stepped in the opposite direction. The guard lost his footing and scrambled down a few steps.

Arthur took the opportunity to get level with him as another guard’s sword swung for his neck. He ducked low, and slammed himself into the second guard, throwing his arms around his waist. The man backpedalled, and Arthur threw him into the first guard. The two rolled down the stone stairs to the road below. 

Meanwhile, Gwaine sword was locked with another guard’s. Arthur came up behind the guard and swiped the point of his sword behind his knees. The guard howled and lost his control of his sword. Gwaine pushed away, readjusted his hold on his blade, and pierced it through the man’s gut. Blood sputtered from the guard’s lips, but the Cup of Life didn’t allow him to die. He fell back onto the stairs, clutching his wound. 

The other two, still at the bottom of the stairs, were beginning to rouse. Gwaine turned around and aimed his gun at them both in turn. Their dust scattered in the wind. He then turned his gun on the man at their feet, but Arthur put his hand on the gun, stopping him.

“Wait,” Arthur said through laboured breaths. Gwaine removed his finger from the trigger, but held his aim true.

Arthur placed the point of his sword on the step and used it as support as he knelt down next to the guard.

“Where has the queen taken Emrys?” he demanded.

The guard breathed in heavily through his nose, his lips shut tight and his eyes burning hatefully into Arthur.

When it was clear he didn’t mean to answer, Arthur looked up at Gwaine. “Gwaine—.” 

“No, hang on,” the guard said, suddenly eager to speak. Arthur raised an expectant brow at him. 

“I’m listening.” 

“They’re in the throne room,” the guard said. 

“Where’s the throne room?” 

“Upstairs, make a right down the corridor, and then a left.” 

Arthur nodded, absorbing the information. “I thank you,” he said truthfully, and slammed his fist into the man’s cheek. The guard went out cold, and Arthur stood up. Arthur shook out his hand, ignoring the spike of pain in his wrist. 

“Keep your eyes out for anyone else. There may be more inside,” Arthur told Gwaine as they cleared the doors. No one else was on the ground floor, and they found a stairwell halfway down the entrance hallway. They took it to the next floor, and found a group of five more guards waiting for them there. 

Arthur’s eyes flickered to the adjacent corridor. They could make it before the guards reached them, but they would only be pursued. 

He could no longer feel Merlin’s feather light touch on his skin. Whatever distraction Merlin was providing, Arthur feared it was running its course.

 

///

 

Morgana dragged the tip of the dagger across Merlin’s palm, and the metal of it stung slightly. He gritted his teeth against the pain. When the red bled out from his skin, she put down the knife and gripped him with both hands. One stayed wrapped around his wrist, holding it steady. The other rolled over his fingers, pushing them into a tight fist. She squeezed it over the cup, making droplets of blood trickle into it.

At last, when there was enough, she released his hand and picked up the cup. She brought it to her lips, and then paused. She stared at him from over the rim.

“Last chance, Emrys,” she told him, her gaze cold instead of sombre. “It doesn’t have to be like this. We could rule together.”

Merlin matched her stare, not saying a word. Inside, a storm brewed within him, begging him to take her up on the offer while he still had the chance.

“As you wish,” she conceded. She drank down the contents of the cup. 

When she was done, she shivered slightly against the iron taste and wiped the excess from her lips with a cloth. 

Then, she put one hand on Merlin’s cheek. It was the mockery of a lover’s touch—far too frigid. It drained all the warmth from him. And yet, his skin tingled against it. His magic was already responding to her. 

His chest caved in, making him numb. There was a stinging in the back of his eyes, but he did not let the tears free.

He was ready for this. He had to be.

She recited her incantation, and her irises burned. 

It had been a good life, hadn’t it? He’d done his very best, hadn’t he?

Her hand remained on his cheek. He realised a golden light was radiating off the milky skin of her arm. But no—it wasn’t coming from her. It was only a reflection. His eyes strayed down to his hands in his lap. It was him. Slowly, his skin was illumining in a dancing light.

His eyes began to droop heavily. He found himself fighting it.

He wasn’t ready. He didn’t want to go. 

But he had to. 

She let her hand slip away, and gave a satisfied sound. “That’s right, Emrys. Let go.” 

_Let go_ , he told himself. He had to let himself go.

In the blacks of her irises, he saw only gold reflected. The light of his skin was overcoming his senses now. Her image was slipping away. Her words sounded like they were coming from underwater. 

He thought he should warn her about what came next. It was harder than it should have been, but he struggled out, “You asked for this, Morgana.”

If she gave a reaction, he did not see nor hear it. His senses were overcome.

He ran the pad of his thumb across the smooth surface of his wedding band. The last thought to cross his mind was of Arthur, and how he only wished he could see him again. Just one last time. 

He let his eyes slip closed, and let the magic overwhelm him.

 

///

 

“Go get Merlin,” Gwaine said, squaring up against the oncoming enemy. “I’ll take care of them.” 

Arthur nodded gratefully to him, and braced him on the shoulder hurriedly in hopes it wouldn’t be their last meeting before rushing down the adjacent corridor. The clattering of swords and shouts of the dying followed him, but none of those agonized screams sounded like Gwaine. He carried on, pushing all thoughts of what was behind him from his mind.

Soon, he neared the end of the corridor, where another short hallway led in both directions. He slowed to a stop and peered around the corner to find a large set of double doors sealed shut. A man stood in the middle of them, a large automatic rifle resting in his hands. Arthur had seen the man before. He’d been present at Maudsley Hospital when Morgana first released her weapon, and he’d been at the church the day Morgause died. He was Morgana’s private guard. 

Arthur knew with certainty that he’d find Morgana and Merlin behind those doors. He also knew, when he looked at the gun in Malcolm’s hands, that he wouldn’t make it two feet if he charged. 

He saw only one option, and sheathed his sword in his belt. He took in and drew out a few sharp breaths, readying himself for what was to come next. Then, raising his hands in surrender, he turned the corner.

At once, the barrel of Malcolm’s gun was pointed in his direction. 

“Stay where you are!” the guard bellowed, but Arthur didn’t listen. He kept his hands up and continued slowly forward. 

“I’ve come to speak with the queen,” Arthur told him. “There needn’t be any more bloodshed. She and I can settle this together.” 

How he wished he really meant the words. Maybe, somewhere, he did. But now his only thoughts were for Merlin—bringing him home, whatever that meant. 

“The queen’s busy,” Malcolm said, his gun still up. A soft golden hue began spilling from the cracks in the doors behind him. Arthur knew the exact shade of the colour; he’d seen it burn in Merlin’s irises countless times. His heart pounded in panic of what was happening inside the throne room. 

Arthur was within an arm’s reach of the gun’s tip now. He saw Malcolm tense.

“She’ll want to see me,” Arthur assured him, and raised a haughty brow. “Or will you be the one to tell her you turned the King of Britain away?”

Malcolm faltered as Arthur took one last easy step towards him, putting his chest against the press of the barrel. He knew his vest wouldn’t stop such a powerful machine at such proximity, but he couldn’t afford to show fear. 

“Queen Morgana has ordered your immediate arrest,” Malcolm said, and relaxed his finger from the trigger. Arthur didn’t stop to wonder why Morgana didn’t order his death instead. She probably wanted to kill him herself, after she’d set off her weapon on his army. “I’ll take you to her. Keep your hands up.” 

Arthur nodded. Malcolm kept his gun raised, and briefly, half of his attention went to opening the door to the throne room.

But half was all Arthur needed. In one swift motion, he sidestepped away from the gun and ripped it from Malcolm’s hands. He brought the butt of it forcibly upwards to knock him in the nose.

Malcolm reeled backwards, his back slamming against the door. Arthur took the opportunity to pull out his sword and plunge it into the man’s gut.

Malcolm let out a gasp as the blade ripped through him. When Arthur pulled it out, he burst into ash that quietly floated down to his shoes. 

Arthur steeled his jaw at the handle of the doors and tossed the gun on top of the ashes. It wouldn’t serve him against Morgana, anyway. Not like the sword in his hand or the antique shotgun on his belt. He gripped the former tighter in his fist and took the latter from its holster, holding both at the ready.

Bracing himself, he tore through the doors.

The room was swimming in burnt light that blinded him until his eyes adjusted in rapid blinks. Then, he saw Morgana, standing to the side of a smouldering alter. Merlin, cross-legged and unresponsive, was on the floor on the other side of the alter. 

It was difficult to look at him. Merlin was glowing brightly, like the sun on an oppressive summer day. The heat of it singed at Arthur’s skin. Arthur made to call Merlin’s name, but Morgana’s eyes flew to him. 

“What have you done to him?” Arthur demanded. He levelled the point of his sword to her heart, as if he could make the distance between them before she snapped his neck. 

“Soon, all his power will be mine,” Morgana boasted, a smirk twisting her face. Then, her expression darkened. “And finally, I can rid Britain of all your kind.”

Arthur’s eyes kept flickering between her and Merlin, trying to keep them both in his line of vision. Before Morgana, Merlin did not stir. His eyes remained closed, and the amber light illuminating his skin deepened with every instant, until it seemed to lift off his skin in a golden, shimmering mist.

_Wake up, Merlin. Do something!_ Arthur prayed. They could only defeat Morgana together.

However, it was clear Merlin wouldn’t awaken. Arthur had to do this himself. He remembered the shotgun in his hand and aimed it at Morgana. 

Morgana did not seem threatened in the least. In fact, she let out a chuckle.

“Oh, come now, dear brother. You won’t use that on me.” 

He didn’t want to, but she was giving him no choice. He stayed the tremor in his hand and pushed resolve into his jaw. He thumbed down the hammer on the gun with a click. 

“You’re standing between me and my husband,” Arthur told her. “Do you think there’s anything I won’t do?”

He took a step closer, his finger hovering over the trigger.

Morgana must have realised he wasn’t bluffing. For a flash, terror streaked across her expression. Quickly, she tamed it. She waved her hand, and the gun was ripped from his fist. Arthur jerked after it, trying to catch it, but it was no use.

“Shame. I was hoping you’d die by my weapon. But it seems I’ll just have to kill you myself,” she said. She lifted her hand again, levelling it towards him.

Arthur raised his sword.

Morgana drew herself up to her full height and gave a shout. She thrust her hands threw the air, and Arthur braced himself for the pain of being flung backwards.

However, it never came. At the same instant as Morgana unleashed her magic, Merlin’s hand flew up. Arthur wasn’t certain what Merlin had done—in fact, it looked as if he hadn’t done anything at all—but Morgana was thrown backwards instead of him. She landed hard on her back, but did not pass out. She grunted, and rolled gently from side to side in attempt to stop the pain.

Slowly, Merlin got to his feet, appearing taller than he ever had. The sparkling light flooding off his skin radiated against the floor and walls, causing them to take on the same colour. Arthur could hardly make out the sharp, familiar lines of Merlin’s features in the glow.

“Merlin?” he breathed out, half terrified and half awestruck.

At the sound of Arthur’s voice, Merlin turned his neck towards him; although, he didn’t appear to be responding to his name. It was only the sound that drew his attention. Even though Merlin was staring right at him, Arthur wondered if he was seeing him at all. At the moment, it felt as if Merlin were further away from him than ever before. 

All sense of awe dropped from Arthur, leaving room only for the squirming sickness that threatened to overcome him. Merlin was gone.

“No,” he whispered aloud like a prayer. 

Merlin turned away from him, bringing his attention to Morgana on the floor. He stepped over the smoking bowls on the alter, kicking them over and decimating it. Morgana whimpered and, still on her back, crawled backwards, away from him as fast as she could. 

“Get up,” Merlin said, but it didn’t sound like him at all. Though his mouth moved, a thousand voices spoke at once through him. Arthur couldn’t even pinpoint Merlin’s voice amongst them. 

At once, and as if Morgana had no control of her body, she unnaturally moved into a stand. Her feet placed themselves firmly on the floor and her spine bent backwards as she lifted herself up. It looked like she was a puppet on a string—broken, possessed. Arthur’s fist tightened around his sword.

“No,” Morgana said, her voice thick, when she was on her feet. She continued to repeat the word until it came out in a scream. She backed up until her shoulders were pressed against the wall. Merlin followed her leisurely, and paused when their chests were nearly touching. “No! Your magic is meant to be mine! Give it to me!” 

“His magic is not his to give,” the voices said through Merlin. “And it is not yours to have. Nor is your own.”

Morgana swallowed hard, her defiance breaking through her fear. “I am the last High Priestess of the Old Religion,” she declared proudly. 

Merlin’s face remained expressionless, motionless. “The Old Religion,” he echoed, unimpressed. “Words. And words do not endure forever. Only It endures. It is nameless. It is all. It is endless. You are no vessel for that. It would destroy you. You are such a weak thing, after all. Dust, only. You are nothing.” 

He brought up his hands and Morgana flinched, looking as if she was trying to push further back into the wall. She was huddled in on herself, as a frightened animal trying to make itself as small as possible. Something in Arthur wanted to defend her. It took all his will to remain where he was.

“This,” the voices said to Merlin’s hands. The cuffs and chains binding them opened and clattered to the floor. “This vessel can contain It. It made this body for that purpose alone, endowed it with the soul of magic.” His eyes snapped back up at Morgana. “You tried to take It, and for that you will be punished. Its power is no longer yours to wield.” 

Tears fell down her cheeks as she rattled her head, again chanting one word: _no_. Except now, that word was fragile and hapless.

“No, no. Emrys, please.” 

Merlin brought his hand to Morgana’s forehead. At once, the golden light illuminated her skin, and it took a moment for Arthur to realise it wasn’t just a reflection anymore. The glow was coming from inside Morgana, burning brightest from her heart and slowly travelling upwards to Merlin’s hand.

As it passed to him, Morgana’s light faded until it was no more. When he stepped away from her, she was ashen, almost as grey as a corpse.

“You can’t do this,” she cried, but it was too late. He already had. “I didn’t give it freely!”

“It is not yours to give,” the voices said again. “It allowed you to borrow It only, but no more.”

“Emrys!” Morgana raged, working herself up into a frenzy.

“Sleep,” the voices uttered simply, quickly. At once, Morgana stilled and dropped to the floor, unconscious. 

Merlin looked down at her apathetically before turning away. He didn’t even spare Arthur a glance as he made for the double doors. As he passed Arthur, the sound of drums beat in Arthur’s ears. It was his own blood rushing, telling him to stop Merlin before he got away.

Something told him that, if he let Merlin go, he’d never see him again.

“Wait!” Arthur called, spinning around. Merlin halted. There was a pause before he looked over his shoulder at Arthur.

He stared blankly with those pale golden eyes, not a trace of recognition in them. Arthur’s own eyes grew wide and began to well with pressure. He told himself, desperately, that Merlin was still in there. He would find him. 

“Merlin,” Arthur coaxed. “It’s me. You know me. It’s Arthur.” 

“Arthur?” the voices said as if the word was foreign.

Merlin’s body turned fully to face him. He regarded Arthur as a god might regard an insect. 

Arthur’s chest hollowed out, and the floor dropped from underneath him. It felt like his flesh was growing on his insides, filling up his stomach heavily. But he would not give up.

He placed his sword on the ground, and held up one hand to show he meant no harm.

“You did it, Merlin,” he said, refusing to speak to the power inside of him or any of the thousands of voices speaking through him. He would only speak to Merlin. “It’s over. You can stop now. You can let it go.”

Arthur took a hesitant step forward, despite all his animal instincts telling him not to. He knew he should have feared the magic, but that fear was nothing compared to his love for Merlin. 

“Let it go, Merlin.”

_Let him go_. 

“Emrys has given himself over,” said the voices, all of them cold.

Arthur refused to let his tears fall.

“It can’t have you.” 

Merlin canted his head to the side slightly, inspecting Arthur carefully. 

“Why do you linger here? The path to your destiny has been cleared. You must fulfil it. You are to be a great king. You are to unite the lands in magic.” 

Arthur shook his head. He didn’t care about destiny. He would not be a puppet for the Old Religion, existing only to execute its agenda. The Old Religion didn’t get him this far. Merlin did. 

“I’m nothing with you, Merlin,” Arthur told him, continuing to call him by name. Maybe it would be enough to remind Merlin of who he was. Maybe Merlin would hear him. 

As Arthur stepped closer to him, he held out his hand, willing Merlin to take it. Merlin did not. He remained still and distant.

“Please, Merlin, my soul,” Arthur beckoned. “Fight it. It’s like Gaius says: you have to control the magic. Don’t let it control you.”

“What you call the Old Religion cannot be tamed. To think it can is folly,” the voices said, hints of fury in their tones.

Arthur didn’t let it hinder him. “Well, that’s what you are, isn’t it, Merlin? An idiot. A brave idiot. One who always pulls through in the end.”

At this, Merlin’s expression remained eerily blank, but Arthur thought he saw hints of interest in his eyes—confusion, even.

“You would defy the most ancient and powerful force in the world for this _vessel_?” the voices said, and Arthur tried not to clench his fists at the word. “Why?”

Arthur found that a silly question. Wasn’t the answer obvious? Did Merlin really still not know?

“Because I love him.” 

At last, Merlin’s features moulded into an expression. He looked as if he were considering something that hadn’t occurred to him before. 

Arthur wasn’t certain if it was the profession, the fact that he addressed the Old Religion directly, or something else that did it, but when the voices again whispered, “Arthur?” he thought he heard Merlin’s voice in the mix.

Hope seized him. 

“Yes! Yes, Merlin! It’s me! I’m here! Are you with me?” 

“Arthur?” A tear ran down his cheek, springing from his blank gaze—and that was Merlin. That was _so_ Merlin. 

“Let it go. Come back, Merlin.”

Arthur decided not to wait for Merlin to take for his hand. Quickly, he reached to Merlin’s side and pressed his fingers against Merlin’s. The skin was hot, like touching fire or forging metal. Arthur fought the impulse to tear his hand away. Instead, he laced their fingers together. 

With his free hand, he gripped the back of Merlin’s neck and touched their foreheads together. 

“Come back to me.” 

The light shimmering off Merlin’s skin began to rescind, and his touch cooled.

“Arthur.” Only Merlin’s voice said the word. 

When Arthur’s tears fell, they were accompanied by a grin blooming onto his face. 

“Merlin!” he exclaimed.

He brought him into a kiss. Still, Merlin’s skin was too warm, and the golden radiance burned red behind Arthur’s closed eyelids. He held the kiss for a long time—long enough that he began to doubt that Merlin would ever reciprocate.

But then, he felt Merlin’s palm on his hip. Merlin pressed back. He pulled himself as close as he could against Arthur’s chest and kissed in earnest. They clutched onto each other for dear life. Arthur felt Merlin smile against his lips, and he grunted into the kiss, savouring every moment.

When they broke, both of them were panting for air. The light had completely retreated from Merlin’s skin, and his eyes had returned to their deep midnight blue. 

“Arthur!” Merlin called, overjoyed.

Arthur gave a whoop of laughter. “I thought I’d lost you!” 

“Me? No, you’ll never get rid of—.” Merlin’s words were slurred with exhaustion, and he didn’t even finish his sentence before collapsing against Arthur. “Me,” he concluded, murmuring it into Arthur’s chest.

Arthur caught him and held him closely, one arm supporting Merlin’s weight while his other hand cupped the back of Merlin’s hair. “Easy, Merlin. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

“About time. I was waiting for you,” Merlin whispered dreamily, and nuzzled into Arthur. 

For only a moment, Arthur allowed relief to wash over him. He closed his eyes into it and drove all his attention to Merlin’s touch. He would have been comforted, if not for the fact that he wasn’t the only one there. He looked over his shoulder to where Morgana, still unconscious and in a heap on the floor, lay. 

His arms tightened protectively around Merlin, never wanting to let him go, but he said, “We have to get you back to Winchester. Morgana, too.” 

Merlin looked up at him, his eyes uncomprehending and far away. He looked so tired, Arthur thought. 

“Morgana?” he asked as if he’d just remembered. He pushed slightly out of the arms that held him and peered over Arthur’s shoulder across the room. “Morgana . . .” 

Reluctantly, he took himself from Arthur’s grasp and made for Morgana. His legs wobbled unsteadily the whole way, and Arthur thought he might fall, but he made it to Morgana’s side and knelt down. As two fingers felt for a pulse in her neck, Arthur wondered which answer would give him more relief. 

“She’s alive,” Merlin reported, and Arthur felt himself breathe.

“Then, she comes with us to Winchester,” Arthur said again, “until we can decide what to do with her.”

For a moment, Merlin hesitated, and Arthur knew he wanted to end it right then and there. But he nodded and found the chains that had once bound him nearby. He put them on Morgana and locked them with a burst of magic that must have been an effort, because he swayed afterward.

Arthur rushed up to him and caught him, one hand splayed on his back and the other on his chest.

“She’ll sleep until we get her to the city,” Merlin assured him.

Arthur looked him over. “She’s not the only one who needs sleep.”

“Tired, are you?” Merlin tried to joke, but his grin only appeared delirious. 

Arthur eked out a tight smile of his own, but before he could answer he heard the sound of someone running down the hall. Immediately on his guard, he realised his sword was still across the room. 

However, when he turned, he saw Gwaine bounding into the room. 

“What’d I miss?” Gwaine asked, panting, as he came to a halt and took in the scene before him. 

Arthur was relieved to see him, no matter how battered and grime-soaked he appeared. 

“Remind me to tell you all about it,” Arthur told him. 

“Then, I’ll tell you my story first,” Gwaine said, stepping further into the room. “The Neos are defeated. We have control of the base.” 

Arthur nodded, glad to hear it.

“Take Merlin to one of the cars,” he told Gwaine. “I’ll take Morgana. We need to secure her for the trip to Winchester.”

Gwaine obeyed by coming up to them and shifting Merlin’s weight from Arthur’s arms to his own. Arthur gave Merlin a soft clap on the chest before pulling away and going across the room to collect his sword. 

As he did, he heard Gwaine say, “Ah, Merlin. I’d tell you you’re a sight for sore eyes, but you look terrible.”

As Gwaine hefted Merlin to his feet, his arm supporting Merlin across the back as Merlin’s arm was over his shoulders, Merlin said, “Look in the mirror lately?” 

Gwaine only chuckled, as if the exchange were new—as if all they hadn’t said it a dozen or more times over the years. As if it weren’t routine.

With his sword now hanging at his side and his gun back on his hip, Arthur scooped Morgana into his arms. She remained limp in his hold, silent and dreaming. Arthur brushed lose strands of wild hair away from her face. He wanted to pretend this was a day so long ago, before there was a rift between them. Before anything bad happened. Before they betrayed each other.

He wanted to pretend she could be saved, but he knew she could not be. 

Steeling himself to that resolve, he looked to Gwaine and Merlin. “Let’s go.” 

They started out of the throne room.


	11. Chapter 11

Arthur softly opened the door to the bedroom and peeked inside. Despite the slight creak that he hastily aborted, Merlin did not stir. He was curled up on his side of the bed, a lump under the red duvet, fast asleep, as he had been for the last eleven hours. As Arthur padded closer, he saw Merlin’s brows were pinched in concern, but he wasn’t muttering or gasping like he normally did during a nightmare.

Not that he didn’t have the right to bad dreams, especially after what he’d just been through. 

No matter the dream, Arthur was happy to see Merlin getting some rest.

After they’d put Morgana in a jeep, Arthur left a hundred soldiers at Cenred’s command to maintain their hold on York. Arthur then made for Winchester at once. Despite Morgana’s capture, Mordred was still at large, and the Neo army was not defeated. They’d lay siege to Winchester; it was only a matter of time. The committee and army needed to prepare, and the civilians needed to be protected.

He got into a jeep, and it took Merlin all of thirty seconds to fall asleep against his chest. Arthur held him the entire way home, his lips constantly pressed to Merlin’s hairline.

When they arrived in Winchester just before dawn, Merlin awoke—barely—and insisted on putting Morgana in her cell himself. He’d drained himself pallid with the number of protective spells he’d put on the cell at the police station, even though Morgana no longer had any magic. He wanted to stay there to guard it, to ensure she couldn’t escape, but he could barely stand without his legs wobbling like a newborn foal. In the end, Arthur had to force Merlin to go home, and Merlin let Aurora’s most trusted subjects guard Morgana. 

Arthur wanted to wait until she woke up. He wanted to be alone with her. He’d wanted to speak with her, simply for an explanation. But he already knew what she would say. He couldn’t bear to hear it—her anger, her hatred, her blame and betrayal. Not again. In the past weeks, his heart had broken too many times. He was too vulnerable to speak with her one-on-one.

There would be a trial. It had been decided not an hour ago amongst the committee. Arthur didn’t want to think of its outcome. He didn’t want to think of what would become of his sister.

In the meantime, he decided to turn his mind to the triumphs of the day: Merlin was home, safe and sound, and the Neo Territory had fallen under British control.

Arthur had selected his own guards to aid the Druids protecting the prison; he had sat through the committee meeting, and had listened to his colleagues’ concerns in private meetings. Through it all, his mind was on the man nestled beneath the blankets, finally back where he belonged. Arthur returned to the manor the moment he could. He just wanted to be with Merlin. Everything else could wait. For the moment, nothing was so important.

He stripped out of his shirt and shoes and, as gently as he could, fit himself under the covers next to Merlin. He pressed his chest against Merlin’s back and embraced him at the waist. He closed his eyes and listened to Merlin’s shallow breaths, and told himself it wasn’t a dream.

Merlin was back. He was safe.

The fact of it brought more relief to Arthur than he’d ever known it could, now that he had a moment to dwell on it. He hadn’t allowed himself to ponder the possibly of Merlin never returning; but, now that it was over, the implications crowded in. He’d come so close to losing Merlin for good. There had been too many _what ifs_ that Arthur did his best to drive away. He knew now that they had always been there.

He’d been so weak, so hapless. Merlin deserved better. He’d lasted fifteen hundred years without Arthur and never lost hope. Arthur hadn’t even lasted a few months.

Merlin’s hand was lying face-up on top of the pillow, his wrists still chafed and bruised from the iron cuffs, and a scab on his palm that would no doubt scar. The inside of his elbow was slightly discoloured with yellowing bruises. Arthur reached for his hand, and knotted their fingers together. He let the rise and fall of his stomach match Merlin’s.

He didn’t know how much time had passed. He hadn’t even known that he’d drifted into a shallow, semi-conscious sleep. Not until he felt Merlin stroking his index finger with his thumb.

Arthur sniffed in a deep breath, filled to the brim with the forestry scent of Merlin’s hair. He blinked, his eyes sensitive against the light. It was still day, at least. 

Merlin shuffled, careful not to extract himself from Arthur’s arms, enough to look at Arthur over his shoulder. 

“How long was I asleep?” Arthur asked groggily, nowhere near as alert as he wanted to be. Still, he’d felt more rested than he had in weeks. 

“I didn’t even hear you come in,” Merlin answered, but the last of it was swallowed by a yawn. The daylight streaming into the windows was old, but made Merlin look as soft as morning’s glow. 

“You should keep sleeping.”

Merlin groaned and dropped his head back on the pillow. “There’s too much to do,” he said like he was mustering himself enough to get out of bed. Arthur wanted to stay tucked against him, warm and content.

“Not right now, there isn’t,” Arthur assured him. “Not for you, anyway. Sleep, Merlin.”

“I want to be at the trial.”

Arthur didn’t ask how Merlin knew there would be one. It was probably a stupid question.

He squeezed Merlin’s hand. “I don’t want you in the same room as her.” 

Merlin squeezed back. “And you’re mad if you think I’m letting _you_ in the same room as her without me there.”

“Merlin—.”

Quickly, Merlin looked over his shoulder again. One glance was enough to tell Arthur he wasn’t backing down. 

One glance, and emotion swelled in Arthur’s chest again. All those _what ifs_ , all that heartache, all that time missing Merlin. Arthur kissed him. He kissed him for a long time.

When they parted for breath, Merlin turned around to face him. He wrapped both arms around Arthur and pushed their bodies close. Every line of Merlin was familiar and welcomed.

They lost a lot of time that way, with Merlin twirling his ankles around Arthur’s and Arthur tangling his fingers through Merlin’s hair. Arthur wanted more, but he didn’t know what tender aches Merlin still harbored, and he didn’t want him to overexert himself. Even if Merlin wanted more, too. Arthur felt that want in the way Merlin’s body rocked against his. 

“I love you,” Arthur whispered for what must have been the tenth time. “Don’t ever leave me like that again.”

“I thought you’d be happy to be rid of me.” 

“Turns out you’ve grown on me.” 

Merlin chortled and tightened his arms around Arthur. “Then, I’ll never leave again, if you promise to do the same.”

They both knew it was a promise Arthur couldn’t keep, but maybe if Arthur said it with enough determination, it would bind them together forever. 

He figured it was worth a try. 

“I promise,” he said.

“For as long as you can.”

“Forever,” Arthur promised. “That’s how long I’ll stay with you. That’s how long I’ll be yours, Merlin. I want you, and only you.”

When Merlin kissed him again, Arthur could feel his smile. Then, Merlin burrowed his nose into the crook of Arthur’s neck and sighed into his skin. “You don’t have to go off and be king right now, do you?” 

Arthur thought of all the soldiers preparing for battle, and the troops marching out of the city to block the Neos’ entrance into Winchester. His heart ached for all the civilians who would be uprooted from their homes to seek safety. Merlin was right—there was too much to do.

Still, Leon could take care of the army and dole out Arthur’s strategies. The committee could handle any emergencies that cropped up for at least a few more hours. The guards remained posted at Morgana’s door. If anything urgent came up, they’d call him.

“No,” he decided.

He felt Merlin’s long lashes brushing and fluttering against his skin. Merlin could barely keep his eyes open, no matter how he struggled. 

“Good. I was hoping to keep you to myself for a little bit.”

“Oh, they’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming from this bed.”

Merlin rumbled in a hummed chuckle. “Not the first time you’ve said that.”

“And I’m certain you’ll make sure it’s not the last.” 

As if promising to do just that, Arthur felt a sharp pain pinch his ass. It made him jolt, and Merlin’s laugh was delirious. 

“Go back to sleep,” Arthur insisted. “God knows you need it.” 

Merlin exhumed his face from Arthur neck and pouted. “I don’t want to sleep. I want to kiss you more.” He pressed his lips fleetingly to Arthur’s jaw, just under his chin.

“You’ll have plenty of time for that once you can keep your eyes open for more than a moment.” Even as he said it, Merlin’s eyelids drooped like weights. A smirk licked its way to Arthur’s lips as fondness bloomed in his chest.

He placed chaste kisses on Merlin’s eyes and brow. “Let me, in the meantime.” He kissed Merlin’s cheeks, his chin, his nose and ears and jaw.

“Arthur,” Merlin sighed out happily, sounding just on the verge of a dream.

After one last press to Merlin’s lips, Arthur whispered, “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

Merlin’s eyes remained closed as he nodded against the pillow.

“Love you.” 

Arthur held him closer, and watched the swoop of his raven-black lashes brush against the moonlit colour of his cheeks. 

“I love you, too.” 

He wasn’t sure if Merlin had heard it, as he’d already fallen back to sleep.

 

///

 

The committee, their advisors, and the panel of white-wigged judges that had presided over Brown’s trial gathered in Guildhall. Cenred, too, had come from York for the hearing. Arthur sat in front of the room, next to the dais that had been erected to seat the judges at a long table. The committee and their council sat on the tables on either side of the hall, and Gwaine, Elyan, Lancelot, and Wallace stood in the back of the room by the doors.

A single metal chair was placed before the judges in the middle of the room.

Outside Guildhall, a throng of reporters and civilians had amassed. The reporters came with cameras, relaying the events of the day; the civilians came with signs, shouting and heckling against Morgana. 

Arthur found Merlin at the table to the right side of the hall, and Merlin gave him a tight smile to show his support. Arthur tried to return it, but it only came out as a grimace. Then, he looked to the left side of the room and found Gwen and Gaius. Gaius was in hushed conversation with Thomas beside him, but Gwen felt Arthur’s stare and glanced up at him. She, too, mirrored Merlin’s expression. 

The judge on the end seat nearest Arthur leaned into him. She said, “We’re ready to begin.”

Arthur’s throat constricted quite suddenly, but he forced himself to swallow his emotion. He nodded curtly and feigned composure. He stood up. Presently, the murmurings in the hall settled, and all eyes fell on him. 

The five judges, too, got to their feet, and one of them proclaimed, “We gather today to hear the grievances committed by Morgana Pendragon, leader of the Neo-Druids, and to subsequently pass a fitting sentence, should the accused be found guilty.” 

Arthur tried not to snort sardonically. Was there a chance Morgana would be found innocent?

The stenographer next to the dais tapped out the judge’s words. A tape recorder, too, was rolling on the table next to him. 

“Bring in the accused,” said another of the judges.

Gwaine and Elyan opened the doors of the hall, and Morgana entered. Her hands were still cuffed, and Leon and Percival flanked her on either side. Behind them, two Druids kept watch. They all moved to the front of the room. Morgana took her seat on the empty chair, and her guards took their places by the doors.

Arthur locked eye with his sister, and did he best to look fearless and in control. She did the same. He saw through her; she saw through him. Neither of them stopped pretending. It was much too late for that now.

“Morgana Pendragon,” said the first judge, “you are brought here today to answer for your crimes against the united provinces of Britain: treason, conspiring against the nation, murder, attempted regicide, attempted genocide, abduction of the king consort, the usage of magic in capital offenses, slavery, and terrorism. Should the British Committee present find you guilty of these crimes today, the ultimate sentence that may be passed is death. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Morgana said clearly, ferociously.

“Due to the time of war, this hearing will be the first and last of the trial, and judgment will be passed by midnight tonight. The members of the British Committee, led by Arthur Pendragon, future King of Britain, will now consent to this. Commissioner Basil Wallace of the London Province—.”

“I consent,” the Commissioner stated.

One by one, the judges went though the committee, including Aurora and Cenred, who was introduced as “King Cenred of York, known also as the Twice Crowned King.” Briefly, Morgana seemed distressed and enraged by this. Arthur realised that she had never found out the truth of Cenred.

Each of the committee members gave their consent. When at last the judge asked Arthur, he again had to calm his nerves. “I consent,” he said as clearly as he could. He could think only of the sentence that would be placed over Morgana’s head in a matter of hours.

She would die. He was sure of it. 

There was a time, he’d learned from a book, when Britain didn’t have the death penalty. That changed after the War. Arthur didn’t suppose it would stop for Morgana.

“How do you plead to these crimes?” asked a judge.

She took one sweeping look around the room. Her eyes lingered on Merlin a beat too long, and it made Arthur tense. Then, she found his gaze again, and he remembered to train his features.

Something inside of him prayed, against all odds, she would plead guilty. Perhaps then the committee would see she was willing to cooperate. They would pass a sentence less than death.

Even before Morgana spoke, Arthur knew his hopes were folly. She would never back down.

She said confidently, “I haven’t committed any crimes against those worthy of the future I would build.” 

“Then you plead not guilty?” 

“I plead for nothing.” 

Arthur looked away, wishing he could dissolve into nothing. 

She continued, “I will not answer to the likes of you, much less plead.” 

“You will answer,” the judge promised. “Bring forward the first piece of evidence.”

The judges sat, and Arthur took that as his cue to do so, too. And then came a steady procession of evidence and testimonies against Morgana, her council, and her generals. It took hours, into which the months since Nigel Cyrus’ death and her rise to power were relived and scrutinized down to every minute detail. It took the rest of the day and, as dusk began to fall, the masses outside did not dwindle. In fact, Arthur thought they were growing larger and louder. He heard their shouts from inside, all of them condemning Morgana to her grave. 

Morgana sat silently through it all, every accusation and witness statement. She never offered a word in her defence.

The judges called Merlin to make a testimony. It was brief, sparse of much detail, and Arthur was certain he’d left most of it out. It mattered little. Merlin could have refused to speak at all, and they would still have enough reason to put Morgana to death. Still, what Arthur heard made his skin crawl, and throughout Merlin’s statement, he began to agree with the chants of the crowd outside.

Morgana steeled her jaw and stared Merlin down, but still she said nothing.

It was after sunset when all the evidence was spent, and one of the judges declared, “The British Committee will now begin deliberations. This will take place in the next room. The accused will be taken back to her cell while she awaits sentencing.”

Leon, Percival, and the Druids began to step forward again, and the committee and their advisors began to stand. At last, the words stuck in Arthur’s throat found their way out.

“Wait.”

It was a panicked response to the cacophony and movement surrounding him, and to the stress of Morgana’s refusal to speak in her own defence.

Perhaps she had to die. Perhaps she even deserved to. Perhaps Britain could never know peace until she was gone from it for good—and maybe Arthur had to accept that. But he had to at least _try_ to find another way first. 

She used to be so reasonable. Maybe that side of her was still inside, buried deep.

Everyone in the room had paused. Merlin’s eyes were boring into Arthur, both questioning and fearful. He was afraid Arthur was about to do something stupid.

Maybe he was. 

Arthur looked to the judges beseechingly. “I wish for a word with my sister before deliberations start. Privately.” 

The judges looked at each other, wavering. Arthur was certain this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened—was it? 

The judges ducked in and whispered to each other. After a moment, one said, “We will allow it. The rest of the committee will continue as planned. We shall await the decision.”

The shuffling began again, and everyone casted Arthur and Morgana wary looks as they exited. Merlin remained, as Arthur expected and would not protest against. He walked to the right hand side of the dais as Arthur took his place standing in the centre of it.

Gwen, too, remained. She walked up to the left of the dais and said, “I’m staying, too. I think I deserve that right.”

Arthur thought so, too. He nodded once, and then turned his eyes to Morgana standing a few feet in front of him.

Leon was still at her side, and Arthur told him, “It’s all right, Leon. She’s harmless now.”

Leon seemed reluctant to leave, but he eventually bowed his head and followed the others, leaving Arthur, Merlin, Gwen, and Morgana alone.

No one spoke again as everyone else cleared the room, and the doors were closed. Even after silence fell, they remained quiet and still. Even the sounds from outside seemed to die away. 

And then, Morgana smiled and said, “Look at the four of us, back together again.” 

“Enough, Morgana,” Arthur snipped, his patience finally breaking in two. All day, he had heard the atrocities Morgana and her followers had committed, and all day he watched her smirk and stare blankly without uttering so much as a scoff of resistance.

“Why didn’t you defend yourself? Do you want to die?”

She rolled her eyes, finally giving away some of her inner thoughts. “As if it would matter. This trial’s only purpose was to make your committee think they’re civilized people, but everyone in this room knew the outcome before it even began.” 

“You don’t know that.”

“We have always provided fair trials,” Gwen spoke up, “even in Camelot.” 

“And yet, the offender always ended up losing their head,” Morgana protested, her cold eyes snapping to Gwen, who did not flinch beneath their scrutiny. 

Gwen maintained, “You are wrong. Do you really believe we would threat you in such a way?” 

Morgana laughed in derision. “I think we’re a little past asking that question, don’t you?” 

Arthur couldn’t stand it anymore. For years, he had heard Morgana speak against him. He had taken her slurs and fought her armies. But he never knew why. Perhaps he did deserve her hatred. Perhaps the things he had done under Uther’s command, and even as king himself, were reason enough for her to despise him. He could accept that she betrayed him because of what he’d done to those with magic. But what had he ever done to her personally? He didn’t want to be her enemy. He didn’t want any of this. 

She’d never given him a chance to take her side.

“I don’t,” he said, drawing her attention again. He felt the hurt in his chest gleaming in his eyes, but he couldn’t force his face into a mask of apathy. “I know what I’ve done in the past is unforgivable, but can’t you see all I’ve done—,” he gestured to Gwen and Merlin, “all _we’ve_ done to correct that? Have we not embraced magic?”

Morgana seethed, her nostrils flaring. “It’s too late. You cannot change people’s minds with laws, Arthur. I know that, as does Emrys, even though he won’t admit it to you.” 

“It’s a start.”

“It should have started long ago.”

“Then, you should have been there to show me.” He stepped off the dais and walked up to her, only a few inches separating them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Merlin tense, but he paid it no mind. He kept his gaze fixed on Morgana.

“You never told me of your magic. I could have helped you. We could have made Camelot a better kingdom together.”

Morgana lifted her chin to appear defiant, but her saw hints of sadness glisten in the whites of her eyes. “You would have told Uther. Do you not think he would have sentenced me to death?”

Arthur swallowed hard and shook his head. How could Morgana not see what had been in front of her all her life? She and Uther had shared a bond. She got closer to him than anyone ever did, especially Arthur. He listened to her. He took her counsel to heart. She had his ear, and things would have changed if only she’d realised it.

He envied that—her relationship with their father.

Their father, who trained his son to be king but loved his daughter. 

“I think he would have done anything for you,” Arthur told her, unable to check the emotion in his voice. “As would I. That’s what you are, Morgana, to everyone in this room—to everyone who’s ever gotten close to you. You’re our weakness.”

He saw Gwen look away, swallowing down the lump in her throat. Merlin blinked slowly.

Morgana took in a steadying breath. It rattled on its way in, and it took a long while to be released. Her eyes were welling in earnest now, but she blinked them away. She kept her gaze on Arthur, not daring to look from him. 

Arthur felt something surge in his chest, and he could not keep it down. They could leave the past behind them, where it belonged. They could start anew as brother and sister.

“But you don’t have to be,” he told her, a hopeful smile pulling at his lips. “We’ve been given another chance. We don’t need to fight anymore. You can have a seat on my council. We can rule together—.” 

“Arthur—,” Merlin began to warn before Gwen got the chance, but Arthur held up his hand. He knew what he was saying was insane. He knew the committee would never allow it. Part of him knew he could never trust Morgana, and she’d never trust him. But more of him had hope. If they stood together, the rest were mere details. They could rebuild—the country, each other.

“Stand by my side, Morgana. It’s not too late.”

For a moment, it looked as if she was tempted, but then her gaze turned hard and she announced, “Alas, dear brother, it is.”

Arthur should have seen it coming. In fact, he had seen it; but still, it broke his heart. He nodded, accepting it only because he had no choice. She had chosen, and she hadn’t chosen him. 

“So be it,” he said. Then, he turned to the doors and called for Leon and Percival. They came through with the Druid guards and Arthur said, “Take her back to her cell until judgment is passed.” 

She turned away as they led her, never once looking back, despite his eyes boring into her shoulders until the door was closed behind her.

Then, finally, he let out a heavy breath and went back to his chair. He fell in it and stared at the ground, knowing he’d failed in saving Morgana again.

“She’s going to be sentenced to death,” Arthur said after a pause. There was no denying it. “That’s how the committee will vote. All of them.”

Morgana had done too much for them to forgive. She had ravaged their lands, killed their people, made them live in fear. They would not let go of that. 

There was a time when the death sentence was not used in Britain, but it was such a brief time, and it was not the period in which they lived. This was unavoidable, and Arthur didn’t wholly disagree with the ruling—if it was for someone else. Anyone by Morgana.

“The ruling must be unanimous,” Gwen reminded him, after clearing her throat so that her voice wouldn’t come out small. He heard the question behind her statement. How would Arthur vote?

He honestly didn’t know himself. 

His heart told him one thing, his reasoning another.

He rubbed his eye with his forefinger and asked her, “What would you advise?”

Gwen sighed, her posture dropping in it. She appeared to consider the question, but Arthur knew she had already made up her mind. She was merely looking for the right words. 

“I believe you should vote in the way of the committee,” she said, confirming his fears. He must have outwardly reacted, because she went on, “I wish things were different, too, Arthur, but they are not. We cannot force Morgana to see the world we’re trying to build, and if she can’t see it . . .” 

“Then, there’s no room for her in it,” he finished, making it sound like an accusation. 

“I did not say that.” 

“But you meant it.” He wasn’t angry with her. She was right, after all.

Arthur paused, then turned to Merlin. Merlin felt his gaze and met it. There was something in his eyes—not hatred or eagerness to see his enemy dead. Merlin was already in mourning—more for the past than the future, as Merlin always was. 

He wanted to save Morgana, too. 

Half hoping, Arthur asked, “What would you say?”

Merlin held his eyes, seeming conflicted. At last, he made up his mind: “I can’t let her hurt you again.”

Arthur understood the message: _Do whatevere you must to spare you conscience, and I will do what you can’t._

He would not let Merlin bear that weight for him. But how could he bear it himself? 

This new life was meant to be different, but it was shaping up much like the last.

“Send the others in,” he said, still not knowing how he would vote. Foolishly, he prayed someone else would vote to keep her alive, but he knew it was unlikely. Besides, keeping her locked away forever was crueller than death. That’s how Morgana would see it, anyway.

The others filed back into the room, all of them silent. Arthur took that as a bad sign. They were all in agreement. 

He stood, and asked for their votes. Many of them, he expected: Cenred, the Commissioner, Owen. Aurora, downcast and guilty, voted to put Morgana to death, and Arthur didn’t blame her. After she cast her vote, Thomas put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. 

Darby’s vote gave Arthur pause, but he supposed it shouldn’t have. Simmons, however, he hoped would vote differently. She didn’t, saying it was the only way. Arthur agreed, even if it burned his chest.

And then it was time to give his decision. He paused, looking over his committee and their trusted advisors. He had a duty to them, and to all the people in Britain. He knew now was not the time to extend his power as king and overrule them. He had to submit, and yet, he couldn’t get the words past his lips.

He looked to Merlin, then Gwen, and to Gaius, who nodded to show his support of the committee’s decision. 

Everyone waited.

His voice got caught in his chest.

Clearing his throat, he decided, “I need more time to think this through. I don’t believe the decision to end a woman’s life should be made so rashly.” 

It wasn’t a long-term solution, but it gave him a little time.

There were mixed reactions, but Simmon’s voice rose above them all. “There’s no other way to move forward,” she repeated.

“ _A woman_? She’s a war criminal,” the Commissioner said. 

Perhaps they were fine with their future built on his sister’s blood, but it sat heavily with him.

“You’re letting sentiment get in the way of what you have to do,” said Darby. 

Arthur silenced them all. “I have until midnight to let the judges know my answer. I assure you, I won’t let this distract me any longer than that. But I must have time to think. You will hear from me before the night is through.”

He dismissed them, and there was a buzz of chatter and harsh whispers as the room emptied. He knew, soon, there would be a swell of noise when the reporters outside caught wind of the committee leaving the building. Gwen and Gaius casted him looks before following the others out.

Merlin remained, his hands folded behind his back and his eyes on his boots. He stayed silent. 

Arthur waited for Merlin to speak first, until he realised it was fruitless. He’d wait around for an age for Merlin to speak his thoughts. 

And still, his silence made Arthur guiltier than his words ever could. Merlin probably thought Arthur was shifting the weight of Morgana’s death to his shoulders. He wasn’t. He didn’t want Merlin to do whatever he was contemplating. 

“Merlin—,” Arthur began. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Merlin told him at once.

Arthur blinked, surprised. He needed to be very clear.

“Yes, I do. Morgana’s life is in my hands. She’s my responsibility. Not yours.”

Merlin shook his head. “And you’re my responsibility.”

“No, I’m your husband.” 

Finally, Merlin looked at him. 

“And we will make this decision together.”

Merlin nodded, accepting it. 

Arthur turned to the darkening sky out the windows. He felt the dwindling light like a countdown, and wondered if Morgana did, too.

 

///

 

The clock ticked closer to midnight. Arthur had been watching the red block letters for nearly two hours now, and somehow it still shocked him whenever the minute changed. Still, his mind refused to do anything but wander.

It went back to his childhood, dredging up old memories he thought he’d forgotten. Memories of Morgana, before the world had changed them both. All the times they bickered, and all the times they laughed; the nights they spent whining over Uther’s expectations and rules; the days they would spend riding through the fields; the hours Arthur spent teaching her to wield a sword; the months in which she taught him to read as a young boy when his tutor’s methods didn’t work. 

In those years, before they knew they were blood relatives, she had been more of a sister to him than she was when he discovered the truth. 

If only neither of them ever found out. Maybe things would be different. Maybe they’d still be a family.

The door to Arthur’s study creaked open, and Merlin peeked his head in.

Arthur’s gaze slowly latched onto him, and he let out a soft sigh through his nose.

“That bad?” Merlin asked, pushing into the room. 

“Worse,” Arthur complained. He wished he could be more decisive in this moment. “I know what must happen, but I can’t bring myself to allow it. She’s still my sister.”

Merlin hung his head and whispered, “I know.”

“Everyone else is so hell-bent on her death.” Even Merlin was, though Arthur couldn’t fault him. Merlin’s heart was in the right place; he was only trying to save Britain, and to protect Arthur. And perhaps Morgana’s death was the only way to do that, but Arthur still didn’t like it. “Aren’t you the only always telling me to follow my heart?" 

Merlin gave him weary eyes, and Arthur could tell he wanted to say yes. But, apparently, there were conditions to being true to oneself, because he said, “She won’t give up until you’re dead.” 

Arthur felt his frustration mounting. “So, follow my heart unless it puts my life in danger? That doesn’t seem very noble.”

“Welcome to the twenty-first century.” 

Arthur ran his hands down his face. He didn’t want this decision to be his own. He was certain he’d get it wrong.

He wanted to think of his people, of Britain, of the future. But he kept coming back to Morgana. 

“What should I do, Merlin?”

“You can’t let her go free, Arthur,” Merlin said, and Arthur scoffed at how obvious it was. 

“I _know_ that.” He shook his head, trying to think of another way. But he knew he had no choice, even though it didn’t make him feel any better. 

He steepled his fingers to his lips and leaned into them. The weight of his decision made his mind restless and his body lethargic. He lacked the energy to even fidget.

“How can I just watch her die again?” he voiced the thought his mind kept turning on. He didn’t expect Merlin to have an answer, but he hoped he would.

Merlin exhaled. He perched himself on the edge of the desk next to Arthur’s chair and peered down at him. Arthur glanced up haplessly as he remembered watching the light go out in Morgana’s eyes the first time around. It had made his flesh crawl then, and the memory of it still brought him uneasiness. Her face had been so different in death, so still, nothing of her left in the blank expression. That face, the one he’d known all his life, had become a shadow of its former self.

He’d taken no pleasure in her death, but he couldn’t deny the relief that had washed over him at the time. It was sickening. He’d hated himself for it, but only briefly. Her death had been a necessary evil for the good of Albion. Now, it looked as though things were shaping up much the same.

Arthur had failed her again. He hadn’t been able to save her last time, nor could he now. He blamed himself for not being privy to her unhappiness in Camelot, from not protecting her from Morgause’s snare. 

“If only I’d seen . . .” he began, letting the thought trail away as he stared into the air. 

“Don’t,” Merlin said sharply, but not without sympathy. Merlin had been the one who’d killed Morgana. Even before that, Merlin was posed to help her, but he hadn’t. Arthur didn’t fault him, but he wasn’t sure Merlin felt the same way. The deeply buried regret tugged at his heartstrings whenever the topic of Morgana was broached. Arthur could see it written on his features, could almost feel it himself. 

“I’ve played the _what if_ game far too many times,” said Merlin. “It gets you nowhere. You can’t change the past, Arthur, no matter how you want to.” 

There was guilt in both of their gazes as their eyes met. It silently battled for where the blame should be placed, until Arthur looked away. Neither of them deserved to carry that weight. Morgana had chosen her path. Merlin was right: There was nothing they could do for her now. Perhaps there never had been. 

The bone-deep realisation set in: “She must be put to death.” 

Only then, could they focus on defeating Mordred and his army. Only then, could Britain finally be at peace.

There was short pause, and then Merlin spoke.

“Maybe not.”

Arthur’s attention, suddenly jittery with anticipation, snapped to him. “What do you mean?” 

Merlin shuffled and looked down at his hands folded in his lap. “When the Old Religion took over my mind, it stripped her of her ability to use magic. Her power went back into the fabric of the world. I may be able to unite them again,” he began to explain. Arthur listened, trying to stay patient but wishing Merlin would just get the point. 

“Why would we give Morgana back her magic?” Arthur asked, pulling a face.

“I don’t want to give Morgana back her magic. I want to give Morgana to the Old Religion.”

Arthur blinked, not following. He was tired and he was beginning to get a headache. He pinched the bridge of his nose to stifle it. “What does that mean?” 

Patiently, Merlin told him, “My father is dead. So is Freya. But I can still see them and speak to them as though they’re still alive. They live on through the Old Religion, but they have no real power in the physical world. They’re just energy.”

Arthur lowered his hand to look at Merlin, and thought he understood what Merlin was getting at. “You want to make her like them.”

Merlin shrugged. “It could work. It’d be the only prison she’d never escape from, and we wouldn’t have to kill her—not really.”

Arthur let it turn over in his head. It was too big for him to comprehend. He wondered what Morgana would say to this plan. Would she prefer death, nothingness? Would she see an eternity as a spectre as a prison? Would it drive her mad? Or would she find solace in being one with the Old Religion? He wasn’t certain of the answers, but he hoped this was a fitting penance. 

“Have you done anything like this before?” If Merlin couldn’t perform the magic needed, the plan was nothing but fanciful speculation.

“Once,” said Merlin, not a trace of pride lining him. In fact, he looked sorrowful. “Not with a physical form. The body was left behind. I scattered his consciousness so he would live on, but I think I could I could bring Morgana’s corporeal form with it.”

Arthur shook his head in perplexity. “Who?”

“Kilgharrah. The Great Dragon.”

Arthur leaned back in his chair, going over the implications of the plan. Freya, Balinor, and Kilgharrah had something else in common other than being spirits of magic: Merlin was the only one who could see them.

He reached for Merlin’s hand on his lap and pressed their fingers together. His eyes found the bruising on Merlin’s wrist. The skin was still discoloured in hues of yellow and brown.

“She’d be able to get to you,” Arthur told him. “You’re the only one she could speak to. She’d try to get inside your head, Merlin, drive you mad.” 

Merlin pressed his lips together and squeezed Arthur’s fingers, nonverbally professing he was willing to make that sacrifice. 

Arthur wouldn’t let him.

“No, Merlin,” Arthur told him softly. “I can’t put that burden on you.”

For a moment, Merlin looked like he’d argue, but then he looked off in thin air, and his brows furrowed. Arthur looked up, too, wondering if one of his ghosts was speaking to him at that very moment.

But then, Merlin said, “Stay here.” His hand slipped out of Arthur’s, and he rushed out of the room. Arthur stayed blinking at the door until, a few minutes later, Merlin returned. He was carrying Ygraine’s sigil between his hands, and staring down at it with an expression that Arthur couldn’t quite fathom out. 

“What if I could focus Morgana’s energy into an object?” Merlin said, more to himself than to Arthur. “She would have to remain whenever the object was placed. Her consciousness would be tied to it. She wouldn’t be able to come to me, if we put her somewhere safe—somewhere no one would ever find her.”

Arthur scoffed. “Where? The bottom of the ocean?”

“Avalon.”

Arthur wasn’t certain how he’d reacted. Something in his gut squirmed at the very thought of Avalon, but he thought it was a good plan.

Merlin sat on the edge of the desk again and went on, “She’d be secure there—and she’d have company. Freya would care for her. She’d show Morgana the way.” He held up the sigil and said, “I could focus Morgana into this.”

Arthur blanched. He didn’t want to part with the coin. It had too much history attached to it. It was his mother’s, and then his, and then Merlin’s. He felt connected to the sigil in some way, like it was a part of him. “That belongs to us.” 

A grin passed over Merlin’s face. “It _is_ us.”

Arthur rattled his head, not understanding, but Merlin didn’t pause to explain.

“And now it can be Morgana. I know this can be done. And I think I can do this, Arthur. The Old Religion left a few new tricks in my head. I’d just need some time to work on the spell.”

“How much time?”

“I could have the spell ready before sun up if I start immediately.”

Arthur couldn’t allow Merlin any more time than that. He couldn’t risk Morgana escaping or Mordred attempting to rescue her. Arthur had to make up his mind, and quickly. 

He sat back heavily in his chair and drummed his fingers against the arm.

“Do you really think this is the best way?” he muttered.

Merlin considered it, and then nodded once. “Maybe she’ll be able to find some peace.”

Arthur hoped she would. Morgana had sought power, and now she could become one with it. He tried to think of it less like executing a sorceress and more like honouring the woman he’d grown up with.

He found himself nodding. “Do what you must. I’ll alert the rest of council of my decision.”

He pushed his chair back and stood up. Merlin hesitated for a moment, looking as though he were about to ask Arthur if he was certain. But he held his tongue, luckily. If he asked, Arthur might have changed his mind.

 

///

 

Tents spotted the hillsides for as far as Mordred could see. The narrow beams of light from torches swayed, lanterns flickered, and campfires burned around the tents. The soft sounds of laughter and singing filtered along the hills as the camp settled in for sleep. 

It had been two days since he left York and made camp on Winchester’s borders. Quickly, more soldiers arrived and added to the rows of tents. They were awaiting on the arrival of two other factions from Wales, but soon the camp would be complete.

Fifty kilometres to the east, another Neo camp similar to the Mordred’s was collecting. In the far north of the Territory, near Scotland, the fighter pilots were preparing their planes and missiles. 

All they needed now was Morgana and her weapon. The attack on Winchester would be quick. They simply needed to breech the city so that Morgana might unleash her power on the watchtower. 

Mordred overlooked the hills, expecting to see Morgana’s caravan arrive at any moment. He’d been expecting it all day. Something in the back of his head fretted over her delay, but he pushed it away. It was nothing but paranoia. 

And then, breaking through the usual nighttime bustle of the camp, Mordred heard a horse whiney loudly. Shouts and chatter went up through the camp. The sounds of hooves picked up.

The nagging in Mordred’s head beat its way to the forefront of his thoughts.

He spotted a horse and rider galloping through the camp, kicking up grass and mud beneath it. Soldiers pointed in Mordred’s direction, and the rider kept on until it reached Mordred’s tent. As he approached, Mordred recognised him as a guard from the base’s back gate. 

His heart took new root in his throat. 

“Sir Mordred,” said the guard, out of breath, “I just rode all the way from the base. King Arthur and his troops have overrun it.”

Mordred blanched. He looked around at all the eager eyes staring up the hill, and those nearby his tent. People began to mutter. This was a conversation best held in private. 

“Come inside,” Mordred demanded.

The guard slipped from the saddle and followed Mordred into his tent. Mordred ensured the flap was shut before turning on the man.

“Tell me everything.”

“It began with a slave revolt, led by Cenred,” the guard began, and Mordred cursed under his breath. He had never trusted Cenred. He knew Morgana didn’t, either. She only allowed Cenred into her inner circle because of Morgause. Mordred rued the day the Cup of Life ever brought Cenred back into the world.

“Shortly after, Arthur arrived. We think they were working together, and that this attack was planned. It has given Arthur control of the base. My captain ordered me to bring word to you before he was killed. I barely managed to escape myself.” 

Mordred gritted his teeth. Merlin was behind this. He didn’t know how, but he’d orchestrated the attack. However, Mordred’s hatred took a backseat to his worry for Morgana. If the base was overrun and the Territory was under Arthur’s control, he feared Morgana hadn’t succeeded in taking Merlin’s power.

“What about the queen?” he asked, not allowing his fear to seep into his voice.

The guard paused, seeming distressed. And then, “Captured, sir. She’s been taken to Winchester.”

Mordred’s face darkened. Arthur was trying to take Morgana from him, just as he’d taken Kara; just as Uther had taken his father. He would not leave Morgana to suffer their same fate, no matter the cost.

“What should we do, sir?” the guard asked hopelessly.

Mordred’s eyes drifted behind the guard, to the table with the Cup of Life and his gun resting on the surface.

 

///

 

Morgana had been taken back to her cell as she awaited her final judgment. It was a small room, barely wider than her wingspan across, and made of cold cement. A small barred window sat high up on the wall, the dark sky beyond it. The fluorescent lights above her hummed as they cast their glaring, unnatural light on the white walls. It made her stomach turn as she looked down at her hands, so pale in the washed out light.

She knew the cell was warded against escape by magic—Emrys’ magic. She could feel it all around her, making her wish she could scratch her skin raw. Worse yet: she had no way to combat it. Her magic was gone, and she thought she’d rather be dead than feel as numb as she did. She could not live without it. She could not feel this empty, like all her insides had been scooped out. Even her blood felt as if it has halted in her veins, sitting still like deadweight. 

She sat in the corner of the cell on the cushioned metal slab, attempting to make herself as small as possible so the prison didn’t seem so tiny. It reminded her of another prison from so long ago. The memory of it paled her skin, and her heart prepared itself for years and years of lock up. Arthur’s decision would never come. She’d be left to waste away.

At least, last time, Morgana had company—something that eased the pain, something to care for, something to love. Now, she was alone. She thought of Mordred. He was alone, too, and he would remain that way unless she found her way back to him.

She had to find her way back to him. And she had to restore her magic.

She had to endure, even if it took a lifetime.

Through the thick steel door, she heard muttering. Two of the voices were her Druid guards, and the last was all too familiar. She had requested his presence hours ago—or perhaps it was only minutes, as it was so hard to tell in this space—and at last he had come.

She struggled to her feet, her chains weighing her down and rattling. When she balanced herself, she stepped to the centre of the room. She would not allow him to she her weak.

There was a loud buzz. The first lock on the door opened. She straightened her posture.

The second lock boomed. She ran her fingers through her hair to make it presentable. 

The third lock. She lifted her chin in defiance.

She would not be afraid.

The door opened, and in walked her jailer. Not a guard or warden, her true jailer. The only one who could ever hold her in such a place. 

As he stepped in, he idly scanned the room. No guilt passed his expression, but she knew he, too, was reminded of her former captivity. She wondered if that was on purpose, if he had handpicked the cell himself.

The door closed heavily behind him and locked. The light overhead blinked and hummed in white noise. It painted his skin in hues of pale yellow and green. 

“Emrys,” Morgana said. It wasn’t too long ago that she had him in chains. At least his accommodations had been more comfortable than this—for a time, anyway.

He stood at his full height and folded his arms behind his back. For a moment, it made her heart jump. She didn’t like not being able to see his hands. They were his weapons, and now they were concealed.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked evenly, made to sound disinterested, but he was. She knew at once that Arthur didn’t know he was there. Emrys hadn’t told him. 

“Please,” she spat, “you can drop the demeanour. I did not call you here to speak with Emrys, but to Merlin.” She practiced that line before he’d come in, muttering it over and over in attempt to feel the name on her lips. It was so foreign to her now, when it once was not.   She had tried hard not to let her breath trip around it, as it had when she first uttered it to herself. It seemed like such a good thing to say in her solitude, but now, as he stood before her, she wasn’t so sure. She let out something between a scoff and a laugh and into it said, “I wonder if there’s a difference anymore.” 

“What do you want, Morgana?” His tone was not snippy or impatient or hostile. In fact, he sounded tired, grieving. That, Morgana realised, was the difference. 

She raised her chin against the transformation.

“An explanation. I demanded to know—.” She hated herself for stumbling. Her voice was much softer as it went on. “I demand to know why you never told me about your magic.”

He owed her at least that. He owed her more than that, but she would settle for now.

Merlin sighed, dropping his shoulders. His gaze never broke from her as he appeared to think. Then, he said, “Take your pick. I’ve got a hundred excuses. I was young, I was scared I’d be found out, I didn’t want to die, I was trying to prevent the prophecy about you.” 

He stepped slowly closer to her. It only took his long legs one step to be far too close for comfort. She could feel his presence humming against her chest. She would not dare withdraw.

“But the real reason? The one that informs and overshadows the rest of them?” he said. “You know it already. It’s the same reason I’ve always had.”

She did know it. She tightened her jaw and swallowed hard, forcing the stinging in her eyes to remain internal. The air was cold and too hard to take in. 

“Him,” she said.

“Him,” he repeated. “That’s why you could never get me to join you, Morgana. It’s why you never even got close. So, if you’ve brought me down here to try to convince me again, don’t bother.” 

Why it made her so angry, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps she wanted still to break Emrys, to take away his power. Perhaps she wanted Arthur dead. Perhaps she wanted the crown, and peace, and safety. Perhaps she wanted him to suffer as she had suffered. Or perhaps she craved to be so loved, to be part of an inseparable, unbreakable pair. Merlin and Arthur. It was something she could never have, in more ways than one. 

She realised at once she was never getting out of that prison. The only thing she could hope for anymore was to separate the inseparable pair.

“I haven’t asked you here to convince you,” she said. “I wanted you to see, once and for all, that everything that’s happened to this world is your doing. I wanted you to see all you’ve put into motion, all you’ve done, for _him_.”

For a moment, it looked as thought she’d truly gotten to him. Finally, he faltered. It was a small thing, a blink of the eye and a tightening of the lips. But then, when his gaze caught hers again, he said, “I didn’t do those things, Morgana. You did.”

Her breath stopped. This was meant to be her victory.

“I’m not the only one who had choices,” he told her. “I won’t blame myself for what you’ve become anymore.”

They remained silent, both of them with too much to say to one another and no clue how to say it. The words would die with them both, buried in a past that never was and a future that would never be. 

He turned to leave, and knocked on the door twice. The echo it made thrummed through her chest. 

The locks began to click open.

She gritted her teeth, suddenly seething. “I hope Mordred finds a way to kill Arthur,” she said, tears thickening her voice, making her look back at him. “And I pray you live forever.” 

He exhaled a bitter breath that bent the air just enough to be a laugh. “Yeah,” he said as the door opened again. “But you’ll never find out.”

Her chest caved in. She felt dead already, and didn’t mind. Anything was better than this prison.

He looked at her up and down again, and she regarded him. He was so different from that simple servant she’d met in Camelot. If she’d known then what he’d become, she would have had Uther hang him in the courtyard. 

“Goodbye, Morgana.”

“Goodbye,” she said, “Merlin.”

The cell door was shut behind him.

 

///

 

It was not quite dawn yet, but the twilight sky was lightening near the horizon. Stars still twinkled in the vastness stretching along the zenith. 

Merlin was ragged with exhaustion. He and Gaius been up all night combing through his journals and flipping through the grimoires Merlin had collected over the years. When their dry eyes had absorbed all the information they could from the brittle pages, Merlin worked on readying the ritual. He collected herbs from the woods and gathered smooth, rounded rocks from the river. He, Gwaine, Lancelot, and Percival hauled it all back into town. 

Outside the cathedral, on a patch of grass, Merlin placed the rocks into a circular pattern. Inside the circle were three spiralling arms that came together in the centre. The symbol as a whole was the world triad, a sign representing many things: fate, the movement of the earth through the cosmos, and endless spiralling of eternity. However, it reminded Merlin vaguely of the druid triskelion. It was fitting, he thought. 

In the middle of the spirals, he placed a bowl of water to reflect the stars. Around the circle, placed the herbs into more bowls and set them alight. The fresh greenery did not blaze, but smoked. He was reminded of the smudging ceremony he’d taken part in before his vision quest with the Crow Tribe.

He lit three candles and placed them outside the symbol where the spirals met the circle. Then, he took Ygraine’s sigil from his pocket and ran his thumb over the surface one last time. The coin had been with him for so long, never far out of reach. He’d travelled thousands of miles and crossed all seven seas with the coin in his backpack. Before that, it had housed his soul and Arthur’s soul, and bound them together through the eons. 

And now it was time to part from it.

With a sad sort of smile, he placed the coin into the bowl of water and stepped out of the circle of stones.

It was done. Everyone gathered around to watch the ritual. At the front of the group were Gwen and the committee members. The Druid chiefs stood behind them. Then there was Lancelot, Gwaine, Elyan, and Wallace. Their faces were as grave as tombstones. Merlin tried not to think about the eyes watching him. He tried not to think about the ritual he was about to perform. More than anything, he tried not to think of the princess of Camelot he did not save all those many years ago. 

Once the onlookers had settled, Morgana was led out with Leon and Percival flanking her. She held her head high as she walked. Her posture was tall and regal. She could have been a noble woman out for a stroll, if not for the iron chains still binding her wrists. Their metal clinked together, each time making an echoing sound akin to a pebble being dropped into the shallow waters of a deep well.

Gaius followed behind her. Before he took his place amidst the committee and next to Gwen, he shared a very severe glance with Merlin. Arthur came last. He wore no chainmail reflecting the orange candlelight. There was no golden crown on his head, nor was there a red cape flowing behind him. But Merlin saw it all. Before him was not his husband Arthur, afraid and in despair about the fate of his sister. That Arthur had been left inside their bedroom in the Summer Palace. 

Now, before Merlin—before everyone—was Arthur Pendragon. Mythical giant slayer. Legendary hero. Saviour and messiah. The Once and Future King. 

Tonight marked the first night of his new reign. He’d close the former, forgotten chapter of his life. Tomorrow, he’d defeat his foes, fulfil prophecies as old as the land, and conquer destiny itself. He’d build a new world. Merlin would be at his side every step of the way.

His chest swelled with pride as he watched Arthur stride up to him and rest next to his shoulder.

Morgana was led to the symbol and made to stand in its centre, next to the reflecting pool with the coin inside. Leon and Percival remained with her so she did not try to flee. Though, Merlin doubted she would. She was too stubborn to ever admit defeat, even while her heart beat its last.

Merlin looked to Arthur, who glanced back.

“Begin,” Arthur said simply, his tone stern and absolute in the way that was reserved only for royalty.

All eyes fell on the circle as Merlin stepped closer to it, but did not go inside. He nodded to Leon and Percival to stand aside. As soon as they were clear of the rocks, Merlin spoke an ancient binding incantation to keep Morgana in place. He didn’t need to say the words, but he wanted her to know every step of the ritual.

Morgana froze for a quick moment as the spell paralyzed her limbs. Something that might have been fear flashed in her eyes when it happened, but it was quickly gone as soon as her body relaxed. She did not attempt to struggle.

“Your spirit will be committed to the Old Religion,” he told her. “You don’t have to be tethered to the coin, Morgana. You can give up your consciousness. You can become like the soul of the world—in the trees, in the air.”

He’d decided hours ago that he’d give Morgana this choice. He knew it was a curse to live forever, especially when passing through the years unseen and unheard. A choice in the matter—in all matters—was more than he ever got. She deserved at least that much free will. And, more than anything, Merlin was curious what she’d pick. 

“I can make you into anything.” He tried to keep his voice even and his face blank as he said it. He thought maybe he failed. His chest was constricted with empathy.

Morgana sneered at him. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough making me what I am already?”

This time, Merlin was certain he’d made a wounded face, no matter how briefly or miniscule. The words penetrated through to his heart like a cold knife. He corrected himself, not allowing regret in. He reminded himself that there was nothing he could do. The past was long gone, lost in a forgotten land. 

“I will remain as I am, Emrys,” Morgana requested at last. However, she made it sounds less like a request and more like a gloating threat. A smirk snaked onto her lips. “That way, when I haunt you, you’ll see me, the one you killed twice.” 

Her words were another scar for his collection. She’d never allow him to forget her or what he did to her, for as long as he lived. As though he could ever forget. 

Merlin closed his eyes and let the words pool from his lips in a language older than language itself. They may have not been words at all.

When he opened his eyes, they glowed amber. And Morgana’s skin was bathed in luminance. She was producing the silver light, as cold as the moonbeams and as remote as starlight. She did not look to be in pain. She held Merlin’s gaze as though promising she’d one day come back to exact her revenge.

But she wouldn’t. He’d never see her in the mortal world again. He was as certain about that as he’d been the first time.

The light engulfing her became too bright. Merlin had to wince away. All around the circle, everyone else was doing the same. Arthur was the only one to keep looking, even if the light blinded him. He squinted against it, and held his hand to his forehead like a shield. In that moment, his regal demeanour gave way to vulnerability and mourning. But the glaze that shimmered in his eyes was gone the moment the white light faded.

And the night hung black in comparison. 

Merlin looked back to the circle. The candles had been blown out. The water in the bowl had evaporated. The herbs had stopped smoking grey puffs. Morgana was gone. 

He brought his eyes to the bowl in the centre of the circle, as did everyone else. A dim, swimming golden light was fading back into darkness. The spell had worked. 

There was murmuring from the onlookers, and out of the corner of his eyes, Merlin saw Arthur’s eyes on the sky. Merlin looked up. The heavens spun above them as the magic of the world opened up and integrated Morgana’s energy within it.

Trails of light streaked across the sky like shooting stars, bright enough to stand out against the birthing sun on the horizon. Their luminance held briefly, painting the pictures of the constellations against the canvas. And then, as they took root in the night, their brightness dulled into pinpricks. And Merlin could barely see them in the sunrise.


	12. Chapter 12

Merlin was already at the dinner table when Arthur got home. Arthur had been with the committee, the knights, and his generals most of the day as they tried to figure out their best strategy for taking on the Neos. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat down, had more than a bite of something to eat, or slept properly. He was running completely on adrenaline; it kept his mind wired and his body upright.

He wasn’t certain he could stop even if he wanted to. However, the committee sent him home, as there was nothing any of them could do anymore but prepare for the next day. Arthur had a sinking feeling it might be their final day. As for his final night, he wanted to share it with Merlin, who was currently picking at a plate of already half-eaten chicken.

Arthur wondered how late it was, and how long Merlin had been waiting for him. 

“You’re home,” Merlin said, pointing out the obvious, as if he hadn’t felt the moment Arthur pulled through the gate into the drive. He’d swivelled around in his chair to face the door as he said it, spooking Archie. The cat hissed and jumped off Merlin’s lap. He scampered between Arthur’s legs and out the dining room door.

“How long have you been back?” Arthur asked. 

“Not long. Fifteen minutes, maybe.” 

Arthur raised a brow at Merlin’s plate, mostly ripped to shreds.

Merlin shrugged. “I was hungry. Sorry I didn’t wait.”

“It’s fine,” Arthur said, pinching the bridge of his nose as some of his exhaustion caught up to him. He walked around the table and sat in the chair opposite him. “How did your meeting with the Druids go? Will they help us tomorrow?” 

“Of course, they will,” Merlin told him firmly.

“They told you that?”

“Yes! Aurora is trying to contact other tribes in the area to send recruits. They’ll be here by morning.”

“Well, that’s good, because we’ve only got until morning.”

Merlin’s eyes surveyed him up and down, taking him in. Arthur wondered what he saw. 

“What’s been decided?” he asked, as if ripping off a plaster. He’d wanted to ask it since Arthur walked through the door. 

Arthur sighed heavily and looked off, his stomach souring. 

“You were right. Mordred’s planning to march on Winchester. Our intel puts the Neo army less than a day away. Their numbers are growing. They’ll be amassed by tomorrow morning, and we believe that’s when they’ll make for the city.” 

He shook his head, wishing there was a way he could stop the Neo factions in their tracks before they stepped foot in Winchester. He thought of how long it took to rebuild the city, and the reconstruction still ongoing. He thought of all the people who had made Winchester their home. 

Still, he wasn’t a king of brick and mortar. He was the people’s king, and he could still save them. 

“We’re evacuating the city.”

Merlin put his elbow on the table and rested his cheek on his fist as he listened. His eyes flickered down to the table in empathy. “There’s no way we can prevent that? Can’t we ride out and meet the Neos tonight? We could hit them before they’re ready.” 

“I would if I thought it was the best move, Merlin, believe me. I don’t want the fight to happen in Winchester.” His heart ached when he even considered it. Camelot had fallen to dust and ruin. Would he see Winchester do the same? As much as it pained him to say, he continued, “But I’d rather lose the city than the war. Mordred knows I don’t want the battle here. It’s why he divided his camps. We’ll have to split our numbers to hit them all at the same time, and they already outnumber us nearly three to one. Messengers have been sent to Rosewood for reinforcements to even our numbers, but it’s unlikely they’ll arrive in time for the battle to begin. Our best chance is staying here and let them come to us.” 

Arthur had spent all day looking for an alternative. There wasn’t one he saw that won them the battle. Even if they did win against one of the camps, they would lose to the other two. Those forces would still come to Winchester, and Arthur couldn’t afford to keep soldiers behind in the city if the army marched out to meet the Neos. 

He told himself this was for the best. It was just a city, after all. 

His city. His home.

“What about the committee members?” Merlin asked. “Are they leaving, too?” 

“They’re staying,” Arthur said, not without pride. He wanted them to go home, to keep their provinces safe. They all felt their place was in Winchester, and Arthur realised, somewhere along the line, they stopped seeing themselves as from Anglia or the Midlands or London or Wales. They saw themselves once more as British. 

“They wanted to stay. They’re brave people, Merlin.” 

“I know they are. They have you to look to. We’ll win tomorrow, Arthur. _You_ will win.” 

Arthur wanted to laugh, or at least roll his eyes. But Merlin spoke with too much passion for either response to be appropriate. “You sound sure.” 

“I am sure.” 

“And why’s that?” 

Merlin shrugged. “Maybe I believe in you.” 

Arthur opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment the door to the kitchen opened. Agnes came through holding a plate of chicken, which she placed in front of Arthur. “Sorry for the wait, your majesty. It wasn’t warm when you walked in.”

Arthur wasn’t certain he could eat, anyway, as he looked down at the meat and salad mixed with bright strawberries. But he said, “It looks delicious, thank you.” 

She lingered for a moment, and tuckered her hands into the pockets of her apron. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No. No, we can handle ourselves from now on.” In fact, he wondered why she was still there, serving him dinner when a war was about to happen under their noses. “You should go pack, Agnes. Surely, you’ve heard about the evacuation.” 

“I did,” she answered. “And, if it’s all the same to you, your majesty, my husband and I were hoping to stay.”

Arthur opened his mouth again, but couldn’t find the words to say. She must have been out of her mind! He stammered, and then asked, “Excuse me?”

Across the table, Merlin sat up straight. 

“We thought we’d stay here and look after the palace while the battle’s on,” she explained. “We know you’ll need your guards to fight tomorrow, and there will be no one protecting this place. We think that’s up to us, sir.”

Arthur shook his head, wondering why on earth she thought they’d be safe in the manor. “I can’t let you do that. It’s not safe. You need to protect _yourselves_.” He gestured at the room, confused by her proposition. “Your lives mean more. These are only walls.”

“All do respect, sir, but they aren’t. This place means something to Britain.”

Merlin was trying to bite down a wild grin. He popped a strawberry into his mouth.

Arthur, meanwhile, was stunned.

“You would protect this place? Just the two of you?”

Agnes smiled. “No, sir. The entire staff has requested to stay. We’ll make sure no harm comes to the palace.”

Merlin offered, “I could put more protection spells up. It could help you, should the Neos try to come here.”

Agnes nodded thankfully at him. “That would be much appreciated, your highness.”

Arthur knew this wasn’t a fight he could win. Agnes seemed determined. “Then, I cannot stop you from doing what you think is best,” he told her.

Agnes let out a chortle of excitement, her face erupting in a smile. She had clearly never been in a battle. “We won’t let you down, your majesty!”

Arthur hoped he could promise her the same. “Thank you, Agnes. That will be all for tonight.”

She bowed her head, promised to make a hearty breakfast in the morning to build their strength, and went back through the door, and Arthur watched her go. He could feel Merlin’s gaze lighting upon him, and could feel the twitch in the air as Merlin smiled.

“Well,” Merlin said, seeming pleased, “it looks like I’m not the only one who believes in you.”

Arthur sighed heavily, but he felt lighter than he let on. Agnes had afforded him some confidence, no matter how short-lived it was going to be.

Merlin shoved more food in his mouth and said around it, “Say we do win tomorrow—there will be some Neos left once Mordred is defeated. What will you do with them?” 

“Those who fought for Morgana must be held accountable for their crimes, but their families are welcome in the provinces should they wish,” Arthur said, moving some food around his plate. “We will take care of them under the Protection Act.”

“What Protection Act?” Merlin mumbled, his mouth full and seemingly more interested in his dinner than in anything Arthur had to say. Usually, it would have annoyed Arthur, and he’d snip at Merlin to pay attention; this time, however, Arthur couldn’t help but to smirk fondly at the way Merlin was shoving food into his mouth like it was the last meal he’d ever have.

It wouldn’t be. No matter what happened tomorrow, Merlin would survive the day. For Arthur, that was something.

For Arthur, that was _everything_.

“The Magical Protection Act,” Arthur said, his eyes still on Merlin. He couldn’t quite believe Merlin was with him again. He was finding it difficult to look anywhere else. 

And then, Merlin froze. Arthur thought he would have dropped his fork if not for how tightly he were clenching it. He swallowed down the lump of half-chewed food and asked, his voice thick and severe, “ _What_ Magical Protection Act?”

Arthur furrowed his brows. “You don’t know?” Was it possible Morgana kept it from him? It seemed unlikely, as word of the law buzzed throughout Britain for weeks. He was certain the Neo Territory was no exception. But, then again, he knew better than to underestimate Morgana’s will.

“The committee put it into the charter,” he explained. “It affords protection to magicians and lifts the ban on magic.”

Merlin’s expression had completely changed. He looked stricken, and as pale as a ghost. His mouth hung slack and his eyes, boring unblinkingly into Arthur, began to redden and well. 

“Who—,” he began, his voice hardly above a whisper. He swallowed and tried again: “Whose idea—?” 

Arthur wasn’t sure why Merlin was reacting in such a way. His gut squirmed in apprehension. “Mine,” he admitted. 

Merlin looked down at the table, his wide eyes searching. His cheeks became blotchy.

At once, Arthur knew he’d done something wrong. He’d let Merlin down—again. 

“I thought you’d be happy, Merlin.” 

And then, Merlin began to laugh. It was a contained thing at first, slow to start. A single syllable that soon dissolved into hysterics. 

Arthur didn’t know whether to be horrified or to join in. 

“ _Happy_?” Merlin cried out. The tears in his eyes were rolling down his cheeks. “Arthur—I—.” Apparently, he couldn’t find the right words to expression himself, but he did find actions. He dropped his utensil, jumped to his feet, and rushed across the table to snatch Arthur into a hard kiss. His hands gripped Arthur’s cheeks, and Arthur melted into him, satisfied that he hadn’t let Merlin down, after all.

When the kiss broke, Merlin laughed again, and Arthur beamed up at him.

“How much did I miss?” Merlin chuckled.

“Enough,” Arthur told him softly. He took Merlin by the wrist and yanked him down into his lap. Merlin obliged immediately, and slung one arm around Arthur’s shoulders so that his fingers could card through the back of his golden hair.

“I’ll tell you all about it,” Arthur promised, but his eyes were on Merlin’s grin. 

Merlin dragged the pad of his thumb across Arthur’s lips. “You can tell me later. I can wait.” 

“Thank god for that, because all I want to do now, very much, is kiss you.” But Merlin must have already known that. 

As Arthur leaned into him, Merlin whispered, “I’m very patient.” 

“I’m very not.”

Their lips met gently, pressing and pulling and chaste at first. It was the way Merlin kissed when he wanted to savour it. His lips infinitesimally opened and closed against Arthur’s in slow motion, and his nose brushed against Arthur’s cheek with every slight tilt of his head. Arthur had learned to be tender in such moments, to allow to Merlin to enjoy it, despite the fact that Arthur would rather swoop him into a deep, devastating kiss. 

He _wasn’t_ patient, after all, and he wanted his immediate fill of Merlin. 

But there was something nice in knowing they didn’t have to rush—not this time, not ever. Merlin was back and he was staying; Arthur was back and he was staying. It didn’t matter who had gone away that time, or why, or how long the other had waited. They were together again, and they could pretend they had an eternity, even if they didn’t, even if it all ended tomorrow. 

Arthur’s arms tightened around Merlin’s hips, holding him closer. His hands splayed against his side and smoothed upwards beneath the hem of his shirt. The contact elicited a soft noise in Merlin’s throat, and he opened his lips wider against Arthur’s. Arthur stretched his jaw against him, moving his tongue to meet Merlin’s as it darted between his teeth. Merlin’s breath was hot and damp and tasted of the summer strawberries he’d been eating so fervently just moments before. 

His fingers curved around the back of Arthur neck, and his other palm slide up the front of Arthur’s shirt. His hands had always been so cold, but that’s not what caused Arthur to shiver against the contact.

As Merlin began to pull away for air, Arthur sucked on his lower lip, pulling it gently between his teeth until it slipped from him. As Merlin’s panting breaths tickled his cheeks, Arthur lined his jaw with his lips, tracing it to its corners. He licked the shell of his ear, and Merlin chuckled throatily because of it. As if Arthur wasn’t aroused enough, the sound of the laugh went right through him. He nuzzled his face into Merlin’s neck and nibble at his collarbone. 

Merlin hummed, but Arthur wasn’t sure if it was in satisfaction or frustration. Either way, it was followed by Arthur name chanted like an incantation. 

Arthur lifted his chin and caught Merlin’s mouth again. Not breaking the kiss, Merlin stood up to readjust himself on Arthur’s lap. He straddled Arthur, his legs hanging on either side of the chair, and their chests pressed close so that Arthur could quite tell if the fast-pace, rhythmic heartbeat was his or Merlin’s. It mattered little, as their hearts beat in the same tandem.

He moaned into Merlin’s mouth and slid his palms down Merlin’s sides until they rested on the curve of his bottom. Merlin’s fingers found the space between Arthur’s spine and the chair, and explored the skin of his lower back beneath his shirt. 

As the kiss deepened, they pressed in closer and closer to each other, and Arthur could feel he wasn’t the only one desperately aroused. He gripped Merlin tighter and picked them both up from the chair, stumbling off balance as he tried to set Merlin’s down on the edge of the table. For a moment, he thought he’d hurt him, but Merlin only laughed against his lips and brought his hands to Arthur’s face to keep him in place. 

Without looking what he was doing, Arthur swept away the plate of food. There was a crash as it fell to the floor, but it didn’t sound as if anything had broken on the rug—not that he cared much at the moment. Neither did Merlin, whose arms wrapped around Arthur’s neck and pulled him downward. Arthur crawled onto the table to chase his lips, but he wasn’t quite fast enough and lost them in the process. He made up for it by kissing down the column of Merlin’s neck and sucking on his Adam’s apple. 

In the meantime, he reached down between them and undid the button on Merlin’s jeans. Merlin took in a sharp inhale when Arthur touched him, and his subsequent breaths were damp and wanting. Arthur ached just the same, happy that Merlin was solid and real in his hands again, not just a dream. 

He pulled down Merlin’s trousers and slid down his body to line his waist and thighs with kisses. Merlin’s hand flew to Arthur’s hair, fingers mixing with sweat-matted yellow. He groaned when Arthur took him into his mouth and flattened his tongue against the sensitive tip of his head. Arthur gave slow pulls, designed to savour and tantalize. Merlin squirmed his hips because of it. 

“Oh, I _did_ miss you, too,” he chuckled, his throat thick and dry. It didn’t take long for it to dissolve back into whispers of Arthur’s name.

Arthur gripped Merlin’s sides, digging the pads of his fingers into his bony hips, to keep him from moving too much. Merlin’s free hand shot down to rest on top of Arthur, and Arthur felt the cool press of this wedding band. 

He gave a satisfied hum from deep in his throat, and the vibrations caused Merlin’s to twitch. He moaned again like he was close to release. Arthur had ever intention to swallow him down until Merlin called, “Arthur—come here so I—I want to look at you.” 

The corners of Arthur’s lips quirked into a smirk, and he gave another deep suck before dragging his lips down the Merlin’s length and releasing him. He climbed back on top of Merlin and reached down to finish him off in his hand. 

Merlin’s eyes were glazed over in rapture but they still latched on to Arthur’s with quick awareness. He panted, short of breath, and Arthur couldn’t help himself from sharing some of his own. Merlin rocked into his hand, making the table beneath them creak. Arthur’s hips circled, too, as Merlin’s hands searched for leverage on his back.

The noises escaping him became consistent and his body tensed beneath Arthur. Arthur pulled away from lips, and Merlin’s blue gaze swept to his again. Merlin’s fingers dug in hard, and the sounds were mixed with hiccups of Arthur’s name. His expression screwed into tense pleasure, and he relaxed as he came into Arthur’s hand. 

He smiled as he caught his breath, and some of the focus returned to his eyes. Arthur hummed teasingly down at him. Merlin lifted his head up and kissed Arthur’s cheek. He was laughing again. 

“Who’s gonna clean up that mess?” he said, and Arthur remembered the plate of food he’d thrown off the table.

“Worry about that later,” he said. “It’s my turn.”

Merlin was more than happy to oblige.

 

///

 

The night outside was growing darker with each tick of the clock’s hands, bringing them closer to the battle. Gwen felt she was racing against time—they all were—as she worked to prepare the hospital for the day ahead. Supplies were brought out in the nurses’ stations so they were readily available, and the patients already in the hospital who could not be transported to London were moved to a separate wing. 

Gwen looked at the clock as she passed one by. It was nearing midnight, and still there was so much to do.

The evacuation of the city was still under way, but many of the citizens had already been moved out in droves. There was nothing more Gwen could do to help them, so she turned her attention to helping the hospital staff. 

The fluorescent overhead lights hummed against the night, washing out the walls and paling the skin of everyone she passed so they resembled ghosts. She thought she mustn’t look much better. Her eyes stung with the need for sleep, and her feet were sore from use.

She heard her name being called from down the corridor as she was stocking shelves with fresh bandages, and found Lancelot rushing towards her.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said when he neared. He appeared just as worn down as she was, with bruised eyes and slackened shoulders, but he did not complain. 

Gwen doubted he was there to talk of his own troubles, anyway. She thought she knew why he’d come looking for her. He wished for her to leave, to evacuate the city with the others. She wouldn’t. She had weathered many battles in Camelot, and this would be no different. She may not have been skilled with a weapon, but she could help the war efforts in other ways. 

She appreciated his concern, but she’d already made her decision.

“I do what I can to help,” she told him plainly, putting down what she was doing to look at him so that he understood her. “And, before you ask, Lancelot, I won’t abandon the city, no matter what danger it puts me in. I’m remaining in Winchester throughout the battle.” 

He blinked, seeming thrown by her words. She realised they sounded like an accusation.

“I know. I haven’t come to sway you differently, Gwen,” he told her.

She opened her mouth, her argument already having formed on her tongue, but aborted it quickly. “You haven’t?”

“No.” He picked up some of the bandages from the pile and began shelving them. “Asking you to evacuate would be like asking me not to fight tomorrow. We both have our duties to the people, and we will not forsake them. Gwen, I want nothing more than to see you safe and away from Winchester before tomorrow. I would find comfort in knowing you would be out of harm’s way. But I also know it isn’t up to me. Leaving Winchester when there’s trouble . . . that is not the person you are, and it is not the person I love.” 

He offered her a gentle smile. “And I find more comfort in that.”

She found her breath had left her, and was having trouble reclaiming it. She searched his face in disbelief, but knew she would find no dishonesty in his expression. 

“I’ve come to offer my help,” he then told her. “There isn’t much more I can do to aid the evacuation, so I thought I’d be more useful here.”

“Lancelot . . .” she began, looking at her shoes. Her heart was still swollen from his words, but she found room in it to have the same concern for him that her had for her. “You will need your strength tomorrow. You need to rest.” 

“As do you. Let me help you so we can be done faster. Then, we can both rest.”

She looked back up at him, a hint of a smile lighting her face. She picked up more of the bandages, and placed half in his hand. They began again together.

 

///

 

Arthur had been staring out the window of their bedroom at the forest, Winchester’s skyline beyond it, for the last hour. But Merlin wasn’t certain he was truly seeing any of it. His vision was cast inward, if his face in the reflection in the window was anything to go by. 

Merlin recalled him often doing that when an important battle hung just over daybreak’s thin curtain. He would lean against the walls in front of his windows, arms crossed loosely and eyes unblinking, as he watched the soldiers preparing for battle in the courtyard and reinforcing the strongholds, and the citizens rushing to and fro to help where they could.

Only, this time, there was no courtyard below silently bustling with people intent on what their role was. There was only a skyline, and yet Arthur kept his vigil, still as a statue, already mourning those who would be lost the next day, already accepting that he might be one of them. He was just as prepared to give his life for his people now as he had been in Camelot.

He never realised that the people of his kingdom needed him to live for them, not die for them.

More than that. Selfishly, Merlin needed Arthur to live.

“It’s late. You need rest,” Merlin told him. He was still in bed, leaning against the headboard, watching Arthur. They’d tried to get some sleep, and Merlin was nearly on the verge of it when Arthur began tossing and turning. Eventually, he got out of bed with a frustrated grunt. 

Arthur appeared to rouse from the depth of himself. There was a pause before what Merlin said fully processed in his mind. He half-glanced away from the window, and Merlin called that progress. 

“What I need is ten thousand more soldiers and more time,” Arthur said in a low tone, but it was loud nonetheless against the night. 

More time? It felt as though they’d been preparing for this battle for years.

“There’s never enough time,” Merlin reminded him.

It earned him Arthur’s full attention, if only for a moment before he turned back to the window. “That means a lot, coming from you.” 

Merlin sighed. “You won’t be much use tomorrow, exhausted and red-eyed.” 

Arthur mumbled, “I wouldn’t be able to sleep, anyway.”

Neither could Merlin any more. He was wide-awake again, and it felt odd not reaching for a bottle of sleeping pills. He’d sworn off the stuff. It was probably for the best, anyway, whether they were enchanted or not.

His mind turned with the thoughts of sunrise, mingled with the Magical Protection Act Arthur had told him about earlier. He almost couldn’t wrap his head around it. He wanted to get his hands on the document, to hold it, to read it, to try to process it. Because, right now, it felt like a dream, one he never thought he’d have. It was only ever a reverie: a forced vision of what he desired. It never came to him on its own accord.

And yet . . .

He tried to push thoughts of it aside and dwell on getting Arthur back into bed. 

“Arthur.”

Arthur didn’t acknowledge him. 

Merlin sighed again and kicked the blankets off. He paced across the room and stood across the window from Arthur. “You don’t have to sleep. At least, lay down. Build your strength.” 

Arthur dropped his head and wearily shook it. “Merlin,” he began, rubbing his eye with his finger. Merlin wasn’t about to stand by and listen to a speech about honour and duty and the weight of a kingdom. He’d heard it so many times, he could probably recite it verbatim, and his opinion on it still remained the same: none of those things should ever prevent anyone from sleep. 

Besides, he had a speech of his own this time.

“Arthur, your people have been ready for this day since the moment they pledged their allegiance to you. Your army has fought and died for you, and once hopeless people have come to Winchester seeking you. That will not change tonight.” 

Arthur’s gaze flickered up. It was a mixture of gratitude and self-doubt. 

“What if I fail them?”

Merlin wrapped his fingers around Arthur’s wrist. “You haven’t yet, and look at all you’ve done.” He pushed a reassuring smile, and nodded away from the window. “You’ll lead them, like you were meant to do. But first, you need rest.”

Arthur allowed Merlin to lead him to bed, but neither of them laid down. They sat on the edge of the mattress, and Arthur pensively stared down at his lap. 

Merlin thought he was still pondering the battle, but when Arthur spoke, he said, “If you had never talked to the dragon—I mean, if you’d never known about—,” he rolled his eyes like it was ridiculous, and maybe he was right, “— _destiny_ . . . Would you have had this much faith in me, Merlin?”

In truth, Merlin wasn’t certain. He tried never to dwell on _what ifs_. It was a dangerous road to travel down. Merlin had come to Camelot, he had found out about his destiny, he had stayed at Arthur’s side. Those were facts. Anything else wasn’t important. 

Except perhaps one other fact: Merlin loved Arthur. He wasn’t supposed to, but he did. Because of it, many things had changed. Destiny hadn’t a hand in Merlin’s feeling for Arthur, nor his devotion. There wasn’t a _what if_ when it came to how Merlin felt. There wasn’t a world where Merlin didn’t love Arthur with all his soul.

“I’ve always had faith in you,” Merlin told him honestly. When it really came down to it, Arthur was the only religion Merlin needed. “And I have faith we will win tomorrow, and you will usher in a time of peace. You will reunite Britain again and become the greatest king the world has ever known.” 

Arthur was looking at Merlin in a very peculiar way. It was a look usually reserved for when Merlin wasn’t looking, but he always knew. Those eyes made him feel light. 

“Maybe then you can finally have what you’ve waited for all that time,” Arthur said.

The corners of Merlin’s lips quirked. He reached up and brushed Arthur’s fringe out of his eyes, if only to have a reason to touch him. His wedding band reflected the soft glow of the lamp.

“Oh, I already got that years ago.”

Arthur’s eyes traced every curve of Merlin’s face as though committing them to memory, as if he hadn’t already a hundred times over. 

“And besides,” Merlin said, pushing humour. “It’s not all about you. You won’t be fighting the Neo army single-handedly.”

Arthur snorted. “The committee doesn’t want me to fight them at all." 

He still didn’t understand that royalty and nation’s leaders did not go into battle. They carried the titled Commander and Chief, but knew nothing of the battlefield while in office. The committee wanted to put Arthur away in some secure room for the battle, but Arthur refused. They managed to come to a compromise. He would only join the fight if it breached the city. So long as it remained on Winchester’s outer limits, Arthur would not be on the front lines.

Merlin didn’t see a chance of the fighting remaining outside of the city. Neither did Arthur, which is why he agreed to the compromise in the first place. 

“No, but that’s why you’ve got them. And your advisors. And your army, and the Druids,” Merlin reminded him.

“And Dagnija, if things get very bad.”

Merlin gave him a soft smile, and nodded once.

“And me—at your side, protecting you.” 

Arthur’s expression grew coy. “I suppose that’s something,” he admitted, “you and I, together.”

Merlin took hold of Arthur’s hand on his lap and knotted their fingers. “I suppose it is.” 

Arthur leaned in to Merlin, and Merlin met him halfway. He breathed Merlin in, and brought him down to the mattress; and it felt a lot like Arthur was savouring him, to make a moment that would last and he could keep for later. Something about the way Arthur kissed him made Merlin’s heart ache as it remembered every goodbye he’d ever said.

He told himself it wasn’t goodbye; it was never goodbye. Not for them. 

He wrapped himself around Arthur and kissed him deeper.

There were no goodbyes. Arthur was going to stay with him.

 

///

 

Arthur stood along the railing on the upper level of the barracks, his soldiers in the courtyard staring back at him. It was mostly the knights and generals gathered in the front of the throng, but others had joined the crowd, too. The Druids and a group of citizens from the city had come to watch the proceedings. The courtyard was woven so densely that people could hardly move. The soldiers’ families watched from out the windows of the nearby barracks or crowded on the rooftops to be closer to him. Merlin was leaning over the railing of the adjacent building, along with Gwen, Aurora, Thomas, and the members of the committee. His eyes continuously swept over the crowd looking up at their king.

Arthur was about to speak, and what he was going to say wasn’t just for the soldiers alone. It was for them all—for the whole of Britain.

Cameras and news reporters were stationed in every direction Merlin looked. The speech would be viewed live across the nation that night, and Merlin almost chuckled when he was reminded on that. Arthur had never given a speech into a microphone before. He had never addressed the country as a whole.

This would be the first of many speeches by the king, Merlin realised.

The future speeches, he knew, would take place in Guildhall. It was where Arthur was supposed to address the nation that night, but he refused. He wished to be in front of people this time, because it was no ordinary speech. It was a rallying cry for the battle to come.

“People of Winchester. Citizens of the provinces,” Arthur began, his voice booming against the sky. Immediately, a hush fell over the onlookers as they waited to hear what Arthur would say. Merlin awaited it, too. Arthur hadn’t prepared a speech. Like all the words he spoke before battle, he would speak them from the heart. 

“Tonight, we prepare for a battle that, like all those we’ve fought this past year, will decide not only the fate of our home and way of life, but of the future,” he went on. “We will fight it not just for ourselves and the citizens of the provinces, but for those who have not yet been born. 

“I know you’ve grown tired of the fight. I know you wish for peace, as I do. But we are nearly there. A bright and shining day is just on the other side of the next, and there will be more like it. That will be thanks to you, thanks to your struggles and sacrifices, your boldness and willingness to see the night through. Because of your efforts, there will be days of splendor for a thousand years to come.

“And, believe me when I say, a thousand years from now, what we achieve here tomorrow may be turned into fanciful stories and songs. The people telling them may not remember our names, nor see us as anything but characters of legend—but so be it, as long as those hearing the tales are living free and in peace. As long as those people are British, like those of you standing before me.

“Because, who I see before me are not soldiers and citizens of Winchester, Anglia, London, or any other province. They are not magicians or non-magicians; not any class or creed or race but one. The people I see before me are British. There are those who wish to divide us, to subdue us, to destroy us; but we will stand together! 

“A thousand years is a long time, but let the tales remember one thing: Let them remember who we are! Who are we?”

“We are British!” the crowd called, their voices rising as one. The sound blew through Merlin, settling in his chest.

Arthur drew his sword and raised it high. “Who are we?” 

“We are British!” was the answer, louder this time. The people around Merlin chimed in, too: Gwen and Gaius, Simmons and Darby and Owen, the Commissioner and Wallace, Aurora and Thomas. 

“Then let us stand together, from this day until the very last! Let us fight for the future of our home country, for the sake of our people, and for the love of the United Kingdom!”

The crowd roared into shouts and applause. Merlin joined them. He screamed until his throat was strained and his voice was hoarse. The crowd continued, their voices only growing louder when the king raised his hand in salute and disappeared through the doors of the tower. The sound rang in Merlin’s ears, and he was certain he would hear it forever.

 

///

 

Later, Merlin found Arthur near the armoury, speaking in a huddle with his knights and generals. Some of them glanced up at Merlin, clocking his presence, but Arthur kept speaking, dolling out orders. He knew Merlin was there, though. Merlin could feel it.

After a minute, the group broke, and the knights and generals rushed off to their duties. Gwaine lingered for a moment, giving Merlin a soft and stern look, as he did so often before going into battle. Merlin was never certain if Gwaine was trying to say goodbye, but lacked the courage to do so aloud. As always, Merlin merely gave him a nod, assuring Gwaine he’d see him soon.

Gwaine scampered off, and Arthur turned on his heels and headed directly to Merlin.

“That was some speech,” Merlin told him proudly, and crossed his arms behind his back. Arthur kept walking, and Merlin stepped into stride, leaning in close to Arthur’s shoulder as he continued, “I think you might have actually given them hope.”

Arthur snorted out a laugh, but it was tense and forced. “I suppose that’s something.” 

“Arthur,” Merlin soothed. “Your victory is in hand. After today, the Neos will be defeated.”

“You sound awfully optimistic.” 

Merlin shrugged. “It’s possible your speech worked on me, too.”

“I assume it would have that effect on the simple-minded.”

They continued out of the barracks, towards the line of rovers being loaded with weaponry. A black armoured car was parked at the front of the line, waiting to take Arthur back to the city.

Merlin knew he had to ask the question for which he’d sought Arthur out in the first place. It was now or never, before they got into the car. He wouldn’t be able to hide his face in the confined space of the vehicle. 

“Arthur, about Mordred,” he began, and prayed Arthur couldn’t hear his heart pounding against his ribcage. Arthur’s shoulders became ramrod straight when he heard the name. “He’ll be here today. Are your plans to kill him?” 

Arthur stopped walking, and Merlin stopped, too. He looked Arthur expectantly, but all that came at first was a gentle sigh directed at the ground.

And then, “I know you want me to say yes.” 

Merlin bit his tongue. 

“But Mordred was Morgana’s right hand. He’s the commander of the Neo Army, and thus is considered a war criminal by the committee. He’s a traitor to Britain—,” _and to me, to Camelot_ , Arthur did not add. “He should be brought in to answer for his crimes. So, that is what I will do, if I can. That is what I just ordered my men to do. The committee will decide what to do with him.” 

Merlin nodded, glad to hear it. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it did afford him more time to figure out how to break the bound between Arthur and Mordred—if he even could.

“Mordred aside, I need to talk to you about something else. I need you to do something—now.” 

That piqued Merlin’s curiosity. He pulled a face, giving Arthur his full attention. 

“Do you remember last night, when I said we may need Dag to win this battle?”

Merlin nodded.

“I think we’ll need more than just her,” Arthur continued. “Morgana may be defeated, and, god willing, Mordred will be, too, after today; but, as long as the Neos are at full force, they will continue to be a threat to us. We need to disband them so that they can never organize again. To do that, we’ll need to kill as many as possible. We have our bullets, and I have my sword, but those will only go so far. We believe over half the Neo troops pledged themselves to the Cup of Life, and they’re still impervious to normal weapons.” 

Merlin still wasn’t sure what Arthur was asking him to do, or what Dagnija had to do with any of this, but he tried to keep up. “Yes, we need to break their link to the Cup. Once we do that, they’ll be dead and those that are left will either run or surrender. 

Arthur smirked sharply, impatient and prattish. “And do you see the Cup anywhere?” He held out his arms and gestured around; and Merlin, despite the fact that he knew it wasn’t there, instinctually glanced about.

“ _No_ ,” Arthur answered for him. “It wasn’t in York, and we still have no idea where Morgana hid it. So, the Cup isn’t an option right now. _But_ Gaius tells me there’s another way to kill the Neos. I’d like you to go into the forest and gather the creatures of magic.” 

_Oh_. Perhaps Merlin should have thought of that sooner. It was a good plan, but there was only one problem: “Mordred and the Neos will be here any moment.”

“All the more reason for you to get going.”

“I’m not leaving you now!”

Arthur huffed. “We don’t have to time to argue about—.”

“I’m not going!” Merlin wasn’t leaving Arthur’s side, not for a moment. “You should have thought of this sooner when there was more time. I can summon Dag from here—.” 

“But she can’t be everywhere at once, _Mer_ lin, no matter how quickly she flies. This is our only chance at victory. She’s big enough to command the creatures now. What good is having this power if we don’t use it today? Look, I’ve already spoken to committee this morning, and they think it’s a good idea. Do you disagree?”

“Of course, not!”

“Then, go do it.” 

Merlin felt tears building behind his eyes now. “Arthur—.”

“If you think this is the right strategy, what’s your issue with it? It can’t _just_ be that you don’t want to leave me! What’s the worst that could possibly happen?”

His eyes were stinging, his vision blurred. He scoffed out a mirthless laugh, and Arthur must have finally put two and two together, because he clamped his jaw shut and his expression softened.

“Merlin,” Arthur coaxed gently. He leaned forward and placed his palms over Merlin’s jaw, fishing for his eyes. “This isn’t like last time. I’m not even going to be in the first part of the battle. I’ll be on the watchtower with Darby and the Commissioner as our troops meet the Neos on the outskirts of the city. If they manage to get passed us and break the city limits, you’ll be back long before then.” 

Merlin wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t on time before. “If I’m not?” 

“You will be.”

He wanted to make Arthur promise not to join the fray—and especially to not go looking for Mordred—before he returned, but he knew it would do no good. Arthur wouldn’t remain on the sidelines for long.

“Say it. Tell me you’ll be back in time.”

Merlin blinked, staying his tears. In took in a steadying breath and nodded. “I will.”

“And you’ll find me?” 

“Yeah, always.” 

This was not Camlann, he reminded himself. Their fate was not sealed.

“Good.” Arthur gave his cheek a light pat and released him. “Now, go, Merlin. I’ll see you soon.”

Merlin nodded, his stomach doing somersaults as Arthur turned towards his car. He knew this wouldn’t be the last time he’d ever see Arthur, but he couldn’t shake the feeling haunting his thoughts. 

And then, Arthur turned around again, as if he’d just thought of something, “And Merlin? Don’t go alone.”

 

///

 

The jeeps were starting their engines, ready to move out and head for Winchester. The camp had been packed away, and the rest of the soldiers were rushing towards the vehicles.  The wind picked up as the helicopter on the field warmed up. They would be in the city in a matter of hours.

Mordred stood to the side, watching the proceedings. He had been ready for hours, dressed in his Kevlar. He clutched at the Cup of Life, secured from his belt, as if it were his lifeline. It was to many before him, and he wondered if bringing it to Winchester was the right call. But it was too late to abandon it now, out in the middle of nowhere, and he couldn’t spare the men to guard it. 

He released the Cup, and moved his hand to the sword on his hip, then to the gun with the magical bullets in his holster. He was resolved to use it the first chance he got. 

“Sir?” someone called. It was Adams, the lieutenant that had brought him word from York. Adams settled at Mordred’s side and said, “We’re ready to move out. Should be gone within the half hour.”

Mordred nodded, his eyes on the hills in the distance, over the horizon where Winchester rested. 

“The men have their orders,” Adams went on, clearly uneasy in Mordred’s stony silence, “about the queen, that is. We’re to find her, and take out anyone in our way. But . . .”

Mordred turned towards him, reading Adams’ ambiguity.

“Out with it,” he demanded.

The wind from the helicopter’s blades was swirling around them now, and letting off a low hum that reverberated up through Mordred’s boots. The red morning sun was growing in light, drawing world into daylight.

“What about King Arthur, sir? At the base, Queen Morgana had ordered us to capture him alive. Does that still stand?”

Mordred hadn’t given the troops orders about Arthur because he wanted them to focus on rescuing Morgana. And because he wanted Arthur for himself.

He would find Arthur. He would end it. After today, nothing would stand in the way of Morgana and the throne, no matter what that meant for him.

Mordred was resolved of that, too. 

But still, there was no harm in making sure Arthur couldn’t escape. 

“If you find the king, bring him to Morgana,” Mordred confirmed, turning his eyes back on the hills, “dead or alive.”


	13. Chapter 13

With his eyes closed, it was hard for Arthur to picture a battle about to begin. The red-tinted darkness behind his lids was calm and silent. There was a soft breeze on the top of the watchtower, carrying the scent of budding trees and sunshine. He took in a deep breath of it, relishing the peace. It wouldn’t last long. 

The comm. in his ear sparked into life, Leon’s voice on the other end. “Sire, reports are in from watch. The Neo army is approaching from the north by air and the east by land. It is estimated they’ll engage our troops outside the city in fifteen minutes.”

Arthur opened his eyes. The city below him was still, and he peered out into the horizon, wishing he could see the Neo vehicles approaching. But the city was too built up and expansive, and he had no eyes on the front lines. He wished he were on the field as part of the vanguard. His hands itched towards his sword. 

He was aware of the men behind him, Darby and the Commissioner, their eyes on his back.

Arthur touched the radio in his ear. “Elyan, report from the front lines.”

He pictured Elyan in the line of jeeps outside the city, crowded into the back with the rest of the soldiers prepared to begin the battle. Their first line of defence was a row of tanks, loaded and prepared to take out the first of the Neos’ vehicles.

“We’re standing by,” Elyan said, his voice crackling amidst the airwaves. 

“Don’t fire until they’re a hundred yards from the line.” 

“Copy. We’ll hold.” 

Satisfied, Arthur moved on: “Gwaine, Percival, report.” 

Gwaine and Wallace led two groups of men in the heart of the city, stationed near Guildhall and the Great Hall. Their orders were to stay hidden until the Neos broke through the front lines and into the city. 

Percival was on the south side of the city, prepared for an attack that might come from the port. 

“In position. Over,” Wallace said.

“Same here,” said Gwaine. 

“All quiet on my end,” Percival told him. 

The sound of engines carried through the wind. It was helicopters in the distance, drawing nearer. Arthur’s heartbeat picked up, and then evened out. A sense of calm stole over him. 

“Leon, switch to the air fleet’s channel. Tell Owen to deploy the jets.”

“Sire.” Leon clicked off, and a minute later Arthur heard the roar of engines in back of him. Three fighter jets zoomed over the watchtower, coming from the barracks. They flew towards the horizon just as the Neo choppers became five dots in the distance.

“Enemy vehicles in sight,” Elyan said, his voice strained. “Fifty meters—thirty—ten. Target in range.”

Arthur waited. He breathed. He wished he could see what was going on. 

“Arthur?” Elyan asked, awaiting the order. 

He closed his eyes again, trying to picture the approaching vehicles. 

“Should we fire, Arthur?”

He let another moment pass, and then, “Fire.”

A boom erupted into the air, and there was a plum of smoke in the distance. Arthur’s throat constricted, fearing the shot had come from a Neo weapon. 

And then, “We’ve got them. Three rovers taken out.” 

Arthur let out a laugh. Behind him, Darby and the Commissioner sighed in relief.

“Keep firing,” Arthur told them. “Take out as many as you can.” 

More shots came, a melody of explosions sounding far away. Reports came flooding in as the battle commenced. The Neos sustained hits, but they’d done their own damage. The British lost two tanks already, and some of Mordred’s troops broken through the barrier. Elyan and his men pursued them, and the gunshots sounded like the grand finale of a fireworks show. 

Meanwhile, one of Arthur’s planes had been shot out of the sky. There were only two left, and one of the enemy planes had slipped away from the battle. Arthur heard it approaching before he saw it, and by that time it was already too late. 

The small plane dipped low over the city as its bottom hatch doors open. A bomb dropped out of it, hitting a row of flat buildings twenty miles from the watchtower. Tremors shook the tower, and Arthur clutched the railing to keep his balance. He shielded his face with his arm against the heat and light.

“Arthur, it’s time we went inside,” Darby warned him. 

Arthur corrected himself, and watched the smoke rise. The bomb had dropped near Leon’s location. 

“Leon, report,” Arthur said into his radio. He swallowed hard when he didn’t get a response. “Leon?”

And then, “The bomb just missed us, sire.”

Arthur breathed. “Thank god,” he muttered under his breath.

“I’m transferring my men to a more secure area,” Leon reported. 

“Arthur,” Darby said again.

“I’m staying.” 

Overhead, the blades of a helicopter shake the air. Its black, insect mass came from the north. It was large enough to carry a small squadron.

Arthur got the strangest feeling that Mordred was on board.

The helicopter flew past the watchtower and drifted closer to the tops of the buildings. It was meaning to land.

“Gwaine, incoming,” Arthur warned. 

“Saw it. We’re ready for them.”

“You’d better be,” Elyan’s voice came. “We’re headed for you, too.” 

Arthur cursed under his breath. The Neos had gotten inside the city. He realised his fist was on the hilt of his sword. The ancient shotgun on his hip weighed heavily in the moment.

The sound of the enemy planes grew nearer.

 

///

 

The winding forest road was thick with greenery on either side. The leaves had grown in full and heather and ferns sprouted along the tree line. Small weeds and dandelions peaked up from the cracks in the road, and Merlin tried not to grind over them as he sped the Golf around the corners. 

Beside him, Lancelot’s knuckles turned white around the handle bar every time they turned a bend.

Merlin couldn’t slow down. She had to get deep into the forest, well into the wildlife’s territory where the majority of the magical creatures roamed. And he had to find a clearing large enough for Dagnija. He looked out for signs of one, but he couldn’t see through the brush. 

He chewed on the inside of his cheek until it became sensitive and raw. Half of his mind was still back in Winchester, with Arthur, and the other half was on Dagnija. He hadn’t seen her in months, and he didn’t know what had become of her in all that time. She was still young, and had no one to guide her, no one to train her. She’d been alone in the wilderness. 

Merlin hoped she could forgive him for being away for so long. He hoped she didn’t feel abandoned by him.

He took his eyes off the road to peer into the trees, and at once his magic jumped defensively. It sensed magicians near by. 

In the same moment, Lancelot instinctively prepared himself for harm and called, “Merlin!”

Merlin’s eyes shot forward as a line of metal spikes was pulled out in front of them. It was dragged from one tree line to the other. Merlin braked hard, the force of it slamming him against his seat. It did no use, however, as the car squealed over the spikes and skidded off the road. He only had a moment to send his magic out to protect himself and Lancelot before the bonnet slammed into a tree trunk, and suddenly the world was white and pressurized. 

Merlin sputtered, beating away the airbag. He looked to Lancelot, who was doing the same.

“You all right?” he worried. 

Lancelot coughed, but nodded quickly.

Relief came over Merlin, and then anger followed quickly as he looked over the windscreen, cracked and splintered like a cobweb, at the destroyed bonnet. The car was probably beyond repair. 

His magic boiled and hummed against his skin, spurring him on. He opened the door and fought his way out of the car. He heard Lancelot do the same. He climbed back onto the road, eyeing the spikes and the burnt skid marks. It was quiet beyond that, but Merlin could feel the magic hiding in the trees. 

“That’s my car!” he yelled. 

Lancelot’s sword rung as he unsheathed it.

“You better have some fucking good insurance!” 

Two soldiers appeared from either side of the street. They carried machine guns between their hands. Merlin recognised the Neo uniform, and squared himself. It was almost reflexive now, to drain himself of all thought and emotion and prepare for a fight upon seeing those uniforms. The only difference now was, he could see their faces, and he knew these were soldiers. 

“Hands up,” one of the soldiers ordered them. “Drop your weapons.” 

Merlin gladly obliged. He showed them his palms. 

Lancelot, however, was more reluctant. He shifted into a defensive stance.

“I said drop it,” the same soldier said.

“Hey, hang on,” the second soldier said, his eyes on Merlin. He stopped walking and lowered his weapon. “Don’t you see who that is? It’s the Emrys. He’s one of us.”

The two soldiers in the back shared a look, their certainty wavering as they didn’t know whether to keep their weapons trained on him or to relax them. 

“Wouldn’t be so sure of _that_ ,” Merlin warned.

“I wouldn’t, either,” said the first soldier, his gun steadily aimed. “Emrys isn’t one of us. He betrayed the queen.”

Merlin thought _betrayed_ was a strong word, unless the man was speaking of the long ago past. In this life, however, Merlin couldn’t betray Morgana if he was never on her side to begin with.

“He was probably even the one who stole her in the first place.”

The soldier took another step forward, jabbing his gun in Merlin’s direction. 

“Merlin,” Lancelot hissed, waiting on Merlin’s word to strike. He’d be dead before he made it one step. There was an old saying about bringing a knife to a gunfight, and Merlin thought it applied in this situation, even if the said knife was a broadsword. 

It was better to end this quickly. His eyes burned, and he jerked his chin up. All four bodies scattered through the air. Most of them landed hard against the tree trunks and instantly went silent. The first soldier to speak landed on the spikes, and he yelled and thrashed as blood pooled around him. Then, shortly, he went quiet, too. 

Merlin eased the tension in his shoulders and disarmed his magic. 

“Okay,” he said. He cast one last forlorn look at the Golf. “Guess we’ll have to keep going on foot.” 

Accepting it, Lancelot sheathed his sword and gave Merlin a sympathetic look. He clapped his hand to Merlin’s shoulder. 

“Sorry about the car, Merlin. But I’m certain you’ll find a new one. Perhaps one more . . . reliable?” he offered gently. 

Merlin sighed. His love for the Golf wasn’t about reliability, he realised, as it had never once been reliable. In fact, he couldn’t name a single function he actually liked about the old rust bucket. But he loved it as a whole. He and that car had been through a lot together—many miles, different homes, and two wars. 

It wasn’t about reliability at all. It was about nostalgia. And, for the first time, he thought he could afford such a feeling.

He was about to suggest they move on when his magic jolted again, and he felt the earth beneath his feet begin to rumble. A moment later, his ears prickled with the sounds of engines. At least four jeeps were headed their way, in the direction of Winchester, and they were full of Neos. The four soldiers on the road must have been scouts. 

“Go. Run,” Merlin said quickly, a lump in his throat. He grabbed Lancelot and began running down the road from where they’d come. Lancelot ran after him.

It wasn’t long before the first car was in sight behind them. Merlin threw a look over his shoulder as he ran, and saw the canvas flap in the back of the truck was lifting. Soldiers were leaning out of it, their automatic rifles balanced in their hands. 

The first shots were on their heels, sending gravel spraying up. The jeep’s engine revved as it accelerated faster. Merlin threw his magic behind him, causing the soldiers to lose their grip and go flying off the vehicles. The jeeps didn’t stop moving. 

Merlin ran faster, his heart pounding and a stitch forming in his side. Through panting breaths, it was hard to find his voice—but he didn’t need to. His voice found him. It rose up inside of him like a roar, an ancient force overcoming his lungs. He called for the dragon. 

It only took moments after his voice bounced off the tops of the trees and flew up into the sky for Dagnija to arrive. Her body blocked out the light of the sun like a passing cloud, submerging the wood into darkness. She gave a roar of her own.

“Get in the trees!” Merlin shouted to Lancelot. Together, they raced for cover.

Fire rained down on the jeeps in long bursts. The first vehicle swerved off the road, its canvas lit up and its metal instantly burnt to a crisp. It smelt of burning rubber as it lost control. 

Dagnija wheeled back around in the sky and swooped down low, giving off more fire. The other jeeps fell away like the first, until nothing was left but the loud beating of the dragon’s wings and the swirling wind they caused.

Merlin rushed back onto the road and looked up. Dagnija circled high above, looking for somewhere to land.

She had grown since he’d last seen her, and her scales had become a deeper red. Perhaps he was away longer than he thought. He found himself grinning breathlessly at the sight of her. He felt as if his heart was soaring alongside her, and he felt her happiness in seeing him again, too. He knew at once she didn’t blame him for being gone so long. 

She squawked boomingly, and flew off to the south, staying low. She must have spotted a place to land. Merlin didn’t know how far it was, but he’d follow her.

“Come on,” he beckoned to Lancelot, and the two of them went back into the trees. They threaded through the forest for almost an hour, never running into anything as small as mouse, before reaching the clearing. 

Dagnija was inside waiting for them. She was nearly as tall as the trees, and her long trail wrapped around almost the entire perimeter of the clearing. Merlin beamed at her, and she chirped happily upon seeing him. 

She dipped her head and he approached, and he placed his hand on her snout. Her eyes were golden now. They had still been black when he’d last seen her. The green gem on her forehead reflected his image back to him.

“I missed you, Dag,” he whispered to her.

She chirped again, and he thought it was time he taught her speech. Just as he thought he had no idea how to go about doing that, he realised he should begin in the dragon tongue. Then, they could move on to English.

He didn’t know how the information had come to him; it just had instinctually.

He stepped back to look at her fully, knowing there would be time for lessons later. Now, Arthur needed them.

“Dag,” he told her, and she lifted her head nobly. He spoke again in the dragon tongue, commanding her to bring the creatures of magic to them, commanding they fight for Arthur.

When his words died away, she rose her chin up to the sky and bellowed a loud roar. The earth beneath Merlin’s boots trembled from it, and Lancelot appeared half-terrified and half-overjoyed.

The roar echoed away, and for a long while nothing happened. Merlin stood waiting, his eyes on the trees. His breath trapped itself in his chest.

And then, the leaves fluttered and shook. Different sounds came from the tree line—growls and roars, clicks and squawks. Scarlet phoenixes flew into view and perched on the highest braches. Manticores scuttled out from the dirt. Serkets, their pincer tails bobbing threatening, fitted between the trees. The magical wolves let out howls. Wyverns wheeled around the sky. A griffin stepped forward, and Lancelot gasped at it, no doubt remembering his and Merlin’s first meeting.

A Questing Beast stepped out into the clearing. Merlin bowed his head to it. It bowed in the return. 

Lancelot was looking around wildly, his eyes lighting upon every creature in turn. He was captivated by them all, a childlike wonder about him. Merlin wanted him to enjoy it. He wanted to bask in Lancelot’s excitement. However, they hadn’t the time. They needed to get to Winchester. 

The battle was already underway. Merlin could feel it in Arthur’s frustration, his agitation, his impatience, his every heartbeat. 

“The creatures of magic will follow Dag back to the city,” Merlin told Lancelot, breaking the spell.

Remembering himself, Lancelot reeled in his emotion and nodded, again taking on the demeanour of a warrior. “Yes, but how will we? It will take us hours to get to Winchester on foot without your car.” 

Merlin had no intention of walking. He squinted up at Dagnija, and then looked back at Lancelot, catching his eyes. A mischievous grin cracked his cheeks.

 

///

 

There was chaos above and below. The ground shook with gunfire, shouts, and buildings falling to grenades. The air whistled with shots fired from the planes, aimed at each other or the ground, and the bullets rained like hail. More helicopters descended on the city, full of Neo reinforcements.

All the while, Darby and the Commissioner tried to reason with Arthur to go inside. They’d been against him joining the battle when it reached the city, and they knew now it was only a matter of time until he made for the fray. 

He wanted to be in it already. But he’d promised Merlin to wait until he got back.

Arthur wasn’t good at that, waiting. 

He wondered if Merlin would understand.

“Arthur, there’s news from the port,” Leon said, and Arthur could hear the background noise over the radio. “A fleet has arrived in the harbour, bearing the flag of the Scottish Nations. Rosewood is here.”

Finally, some good news. They needed reinforcements of their own, and he was beginning to think the Scottish would never show.

“The Neos have spotted them,” Leon continued. “They’ve deployed troops to the harbour.” 

Of course. Because it could never just be easy.

Arthur spoke into his radio: “Percival, ensure Rosewood has clear passage.” 

But, even then, Arthur knew it would take time for the Scottish to reach the city. Fending off the Neos would take time, too, and then it would be at least another half hour to make it from the port with the way cleared.

The Neos were still coming in droves, and the British needed back up _now_ , or the city would fall to ruin. 

Arthur closed his eyes, willing calm. It did no use. He felt helpless standing up there on the tower, so removed from the fight. He knew, even if he did join, one man alone could not turn the tide of battle—or, at least, he couldn’t.

There was one man who could.

_Where are you, Merlin?_ Arthur thought, focusing all of his concentration into it and praying Merlin could somehow hear him. He tried to find Merlin’s magic, to sense the familiar presence of it on his skin. 

But it was nowhere.

He opened his eyes again, determination stealing over him. Maybe he couldn’t win the battle on his own, but he had to try.

He was sure Merlin would understand.

He pulled out his sword and turned to the tower’s door, moving past Darby and the Commissioner. 

“Arthur, what are you doing?” Darby tried to call. Arthur was already through the door and descending the stairs two at a time. “Arthur!” 

At the bottom of the tower, he broke through the door and skid out into the calamity. There was a skirmish nearby, in which men on both sides had tossed their spent guns down and were fighting with blades.

Arthur twirled his sword in his wrist and charged forward.

 

///

 

Mordred was the first to enter the city. He was first to jump out of the helicopter, to step on Winchester’s soil. Those he’d been with were mostly scouts, their sole purpose to find Morgana. The others had been soldiers, prepared to engage in combat.

Mordred had been threading through the city ever since, trampling over the scorched earth and gravel. He fought when he was spotted, using his sword as his only means of defence or to guard the Cup of Life secured to his belt. The gun at his side only had three bullets, and he could not afford to waste one. 

He had his target in mind, and Mordred scoured the city looking for him.

He would find Arthur and Merlin, and he would ensure Morgana’s victory.

From the moment Mordred’s boots hit the ground, he knew this was the last city he’d ever see, and he’d made peace with that.

It was time he had his revenge on Arthur. It was time he showed Merlin the true meaning of destiny. It was time Morgana reigned over a better world, even if Mordred could not be there to witness it. 

And neither would Kara. He would join her soon enough.

It had taken over a thousand years, but Mordred would honour her sacrifice—and he would make it stick this time.

 

///

 

Arthur hadn’t covered a lot of ground since departing from the watchtower an hour ago, which was now a pointed roof and the top radius of a clock face rising above the buildings two miles away. Along the way, he’d met up with a few squadrons, barking out orders and telling them where to go next, but never staying with them for very long.

The most amount of time he spent was ten minutes with a squadron of Druids when a Neo plane passed over them, spewing down bullets from its double guns. They’d taken cover in a nearby building until the raid passed over them. Not all of them had made it inside. 

Arthur kept on the move, intent on finding Mordred. His army could take care of disbanding the Neos, but Mordred’s capture would ensure their victory. And it was a victory so far from their grasp now, with their numbers overrun and their city in disarray. The Neos did not care what damages Winchester sustained, and that gave them an advantage.

Not far from Guildhall, Arthur ran into a scouting party searching for Morgana. It was three men, and each of them pulled their swords and charged for him. Arthur easily took out one in a cloud of dust, but the other two were more formidable opponents.

Fearing he couldn’t take them both on for much longer, his mind went to the shotgun on his belt. He considered pulling it and wasting his final shot on one of the men to even the playing field.

And then, just he’d made up his mind to use the gun, a roar trembled though the sky. It had been louder than any engine, and more fearsome than any bombshell’s explosion.

All three men, taken by the sound, looked up in shock as a shadow streaked across the ground, bending against the tall buildings and flattening out again on the roads. The tight skin of Dagnija’s wings were translucent against the sun, making the world below it glow in scarlet.

She roared again, and dipped low. Fire spewed from her mouth, and Arthur heard shouts from below. That was not all he heard. There were more roars, many of them on the ground, from different creatures. The beating of wings filled the sky as the flying beast swooped towards the planes, latching on with their talons and ripping the pilots from the cockpits. 

Arthur recovered more quickly than his opponents, who had never seen a dragon or any manner of magical creature before. He drove his sword into the first man’s belly, and the scout burst into ash. The other tried to put up a fight, but he was still too rattled from the appearance of the creatures. He went down easily.

Arthur looked up again, watching Dagnija circle through the air. She came down again and released more flames. When her great wings brought her upwards again, Arthur heard someone whooping. It was a very familiar sound, overly excited and echoing down for the sky. 

He chuckled, wondering if Merlin would shout himself hoarse.

When the dragon’s great mass lowered again, she did not dispel any fire. She landed, disappearing behind the buildings less than ten kilometres from where Arthur stood. 

Arthur rushed in the same direction. He made for Merlin.

 

///

 

Dagnija landed on the football pitch in the park near one of the river’s locks. Merlin slid off her back first and Lancelot, still laughing and dazed from the experience, followed.

“Remind me to do that again some time,” Lancelot chuckled, running his hand through his hair in attempt to tame it. Merlin’s hair, too, was windswept and frazzled, but he did nothing to smooth it down.

Lancelot breathed, the air catching up to him. He felt light on his feet, and the wind still buzzed through his ears and tingled his chapped skin. His experiences riding in helicopters couldn’t possibly compare to riding a dragon. It had been freedom, soaring through the air that way, with the great wings flapping below him and his shouts getting lost a thousand paces back as soon as they passed his lips.

Merlin shot him a grin and pat Dagnija on the head. At once, Dagnija took to the sky again, her enormous wings kicking up a breeze strong enough to nearly knock them off their feet. 

“It’s been some time since I’ve done that,” Merlin admitted, and then the wind settled and his expression dwindled as he peered around. “Hopefully, next time, it’ll be under better circumstances.”

Lancelot followed his vision. They had landed near an area they had just cleared of Neos. Bodies, all of them charred and smoking like cooked meat, were scattered on the stone road. There were small fires sprouting from rubbish bins and rubble.

A few British soldiers were nearby, their weapons pointed down as they went from body to body, checking to see if anyone had survived.

Lancelot remembered where he was, and what they were to achieve that day. His laughter was no more.

“I saw a skirmish not far from here,” he told Merlin. “I am going to help our brothers and sisters.”

Merlin nodded, and Lancelot half-expected him to come along. But then Merlin said, “I’m going to find Arthur. He was supposed to be at the watchtower until we got back, but I didn’t see him there.” 

He could tell Merlin was frustrated at that, but it was no use dwelling on it. Surely, he knew his own husband well enough to know Arthur would never stay put. Still, Merlin had more worry than irritation in his eyes, no matter how he tried to hide it. Lancelot saw through to it.

“Merlin, I’m certain he’s all right.”

Merlin nodded, and pushed a half-genuine smile to his face. “He’s alive. I can feel it. He’s somewhere in that direction.” He swivelled around, pointing hastily behind him.

Lancelot wanted to join the fight, but he asked, “Would you like me to go with you?”

“No. Do what you can in the battle. I’ll find Arthur myself.” 

Lancelot nodded. He drew his sword and put his hand to Merlin’s shoulder. “Good luck, old friend.”

“And you." 

Merlin scampered off, and Lancelot lingered for a moment, watching him go. If anyone to survive the day, it was Merlin. Lancelot wasn’t so certain for himself, but all he could ever do was hope. And, should he die, he’d die for the world Merlin and Arthur would build. He’d gladly give his life for that, as Merlin had been for fifteen hundred years. 

Finding his bravado, Lancelot rushed out of the park. He called the squadron of men still looking over the dead. They instantly recognised him as a knight and stood to order. He called, “You men, with me!”

 

///

 

The reception areas of the hospital were filled to the brim with gurneys and cots, and wounded soldiers to fill them. Other soldiers with less serious abrasions sat on the chairs of the waiting room, nursing their limbs and waiting to be seen.

More people in various conditions continued to pour in through the doors. The medics would rush them inside, hand them off to Gwen or one of the staff members, and bound back out the doors to rejoin the fray.

At the moment, Gwen was leaning over a woman with a piece of shrapnel in the side of her gut. The metal was blocking too much blood from oozing out, and a physician’s assistant gave her a cursory glance before deciding she’d live and rushing off to attend someone in worse condition. Gwen was cleaning off the blood on her stomach with gauze, and the soldier hissed whenever she got too close to the wound. 

“Gwen!” she heard someone call, and quickly looked over to see Simmons headed towards her. A semi-conscious man’s arm was over her shoulder, weighing her down. His face was streaked with blood.

Gwen gave the soldier she was attending a reassuring smile and put the gauze down before rushing over to help Simmons. She ducked under the soldier’s opposite armpit and shared the load. 

“A bunch of them just came in from Stockbridge Road. An explosion just took out a whole block,” Simmons told her through panting breath. Together, they took the man to one of the free cots across the room. Getting there was hard work. They had to bypass more patients and rushing medical staff.

Eventually, they managed to put the man down. His breath was wheezing out of him in a way that disconcerted Gwen. She looked over her shoulder at the doors, where more people were streaming through. 

Amongst the staff, she spotted Gaius going from patient to patient, attending to those he could. She called him over.

“Look at him,” she told Gaius, pointing down at the soldier. “I think his wounds are urgent.”

Gaius laboured to his knees and listened to the man’s breathing. After a moment, he leaned further down and pressed his ear to the man’s chest.

“His lung has collapsed,” Gaius reported. “He’ll need surgery, but I can relieve some of the pressure. I need a scalpel and a chest tube.”

“I’ll get it,” Simmons offered, and was immediately on her feet. 

“Help me get this man’s vest off,” Gaius said, and he and Gwen began undressing him until his chest, battered and bruised, was exposed.

“Will he live?” Gwen worried, her voice dropping. 

Gaius gave her a very severe look, his eyes flickering to the patient. “We can only hope.”

In moments, Simmons returned with a handful of medical equipment. “I wasn’t sure . . .” she admitted.

“It’s fine, Prime Minister, thank you,” Gaius told her, and picked out what he needed. Gwen held on to the man’s hand as Gaius made the insertion. She’d expected the soldier to tense, but he was too delirious for it. She wondered if he even knew where he was. 

When the tube was inserted, the wheezing ceased, and the man breathed normally. 

Gwen breathed, too.

“I will find a nurse to prep him for surgery,” Gaius said, climbing to his feet, and then he was off again.

Gwen turned to Simmons, who had gone pale. Her eyes were wide as she stared down at the man. Gwen had never seen her so shaken.

“Are you all right, Prime Minister?” Gwen asked, placing a hand on Simmons’ shoulder. 

Simmons inhaled sharply and snapped back into herself. She shook her head, and then nodded it quickly. “N—Yes. I’m fine. It’s just . . . We can’t keep this up for much longer. The hospital is at full capacity, and the doctors can’t possibly get to everyone. People will start dying.”

People had already started to die, but Gwen didn’t say this. She thinned her lips in sympathy, trying to come up with some way to calm Simmons. They could not afford to dwell on the dying. They had to do what they could for the patients in their care. 

However, before she could speak, the ground rumbled as though an earthquake had seized the land. At first, Gwen thought it had been an earthquake, but then gunshots sounded.

She looked towards the windows, and saw sprits of red fly up from those outside. It wasn’t long until the windows shattered.

“Gwen!” Simmons called. Gwen wrapped her arms quickly around her and pulled her to the ground, throwing herself over Simmons until the sound of the gunshots passed away.

When it did, she sat up, checking around her to make sure everyone was all right. The bullets had broken the glass, but they didn’t seem to wound anyone inside the building.

“What the hell was that?” Simmons breathed, her voice getting lost in the shouts of confusion that went up from the waiting area.

Gwen got to her feet, and Simmons followed her. They found Gaius again near the entrance to the ground floor ward.

“What happened?” Gwen asked. Off his expression, she knew he’d learned what had occurred. 

“It was an air raid,” Gaius told her. “They dropped a bomb onto the east wing. It’s destroyed.” 

Gwen held a hand to her chest, and the other flew to her side as she steadied herself. She reminded herself not to dwell on the dead. There would be time for that later.

“Was the hospital their target?” Simmons asked.

“It appears so,” Gaius told them, “but the planes have moved on.” 

“That doesn’t mean they won’t be return,” Gwen knew. The walls would hold for a while against an air raid, but they were defenceless should the Neos attack on foot. She had to do something. She had to get reinforcements. 

She nodded once, pushing fear down and making determination rise. “Right.” She started away, but Simmons caught her arm.

“Where are you going?”

“We need back up. Without it, the hospital is vulnerable. I have to find Arthur or one of the knights. They can order reinforcements here.”

Simmons shook her head. “You can’t go out there!”

Gwen removed Simmons’ hand from her arm. “I have no choice. I can find Arthur; I know it. Stay here. Help the wounded.”

She started off again, weaving through the throng. 

“Gwen!” she heard Simmons calling out behind her, but she didn’t look back. “ _Gwen_!”

 

///

 

The street Arthur turned down was empty. Whatever battle had been there had moved on. He could hear it not far away, maybe two or three blocks on an adjacent street. The gunshots were sporadic, with miles of silence between them. The opposing sides had probably barricaded themselves, and were looking for way to draw the enemy out. 

Something similar must have happened here, judging from the bullet holes lodged in the building’s bricks and the shattered glass. One flat building lay in pieces, an entire outer wall crumbled away to reveal the jutting copper and smouldering furniture within. There were bodies on the ground.

He heard someone groaning in pain, and found one of the corpses still had breath, but only barely. A young man rested half on the pavement, and half on the street, his head in the gutter. There was a gash in his torso, deep enough to be called a hole. He wore the British colours.

He saw Arthur and held up his hand for help.

Arthur knew there was nothing he could do for him. The hospital was too far, and it was no use finding a medic truck in such a deserted area. Besides, even if Arthur did, the man’s wounds were too severe. He’d be dead within moments.

But Arthur could only ensure the man wasn’t alone in those last moments.

He rushed for the soldier and knelt next to him. Placing his sword on the ground, Arthur clasped the man’s gloved hand in his own.

He wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. The soldier, too, appeared to want to speak, but his lips moved weakly, and no coherent sound escaped him. And then, his lips stopped moving, and his hand fell out of Arthur’s. 

Arthur sighed, despair washing over him. He allowed it for a moment before telling himself to move on.

He needed to make it to Merlin. He needed to find Mordred.

But then, before he could move, something growled in the back of his mind. It told him he was being watched. The hairs on the nape of his neck tingled under the sensation.

He looked around to find Mordred behind him, less than a yard away. 

Arthur ground his teeth, his arm reaching for his sword. Mordred continued to stare at him, the intensity of his icy eyes never straying.

Rage bubbled inside Arthur’s chest. Up until that point, he had been prepared to take Mordred into custody. He felt differently upon seeing him—with his city in ruins and his dead soldiers at his feet. All of it was Mordred’s doing: all the pain, all the suffering, even the war. If he had not brought back Morgana, none of this would have happened.

So many people had fought in this war of vengeance between Arthur and Mordred. So many wouldn’t see sunset. Arthur resolved to make Mordred one of them. 

His sword now in hand, Arthur stood up and faced Mordred. 

There were shouts from somewhere behind Arthur, followed by the clattering of metal. The skirmish on the next street had begun in earnest, and it was possible it could bleed back into this area.

Mordred knew it, too, and he turned. He ran for one of the buildings, slamming through the entrance door.

Without thinking, Arthur raced after him. He knew Mordred wanted him alone. He knew Mordred had a plan and didn’t want it to be interrupted. Arthur didn’t care. 

Mordred had started this. Arthur would finish it.

 

///

 

Merlin came to a running halt when he came upon a deserted stretch of road. Many streets were like this now. The fighting was growing ever more contained as the hours drew on, and the sun in the zenith began its slow decent to the west.

When the sun did finally set that day, it would be on Arthur’s victory. Merlin was certain of it. Everywhere his feet had taken him in his quest for Arthur, he’d seen the same thing: the British were winning.

But now, the only things he saw left on this street were ghosts—bullet-ridden brick, corpses, and a building with a crumbling wall. He looked at all the dead faces, his heart in his throat, searching for a familiar head of blonde.

But no, Arthur wasn’t dead. Merlin would have felt it. He was alive. Merlin senses him close by. He just didn’t know where. The feeling had brought him to this place, but there was nothing.

He heard the sounds of warfare bouncing off the road not far away. Whatever battle was in progress was making its way towards Merlin. He closed his eyes, trying to find Arthur’s presence amongst the fighters. 

He wasn’t there. 

Then, where was he?

Merlin let his magic drift, searching Arthur out. It shot down the street, going straight ahead. It found its mark. 

Merlin blinked open and looked upwards. He saw two shadows emerge onto a roof half a dozen buildings down. One had golden hair that caught the sunlight. The other remained shadowed, but Merlin knew who it was. 

Panic crippled him as he recalled a dream he’d had months ago—a vision given to him by the Crystals. He’d seen Arthur’s body, broken and cold, on a rooftop with sunlight baking it. Mordred’s body rested nearby. 

It was that rooftop. It was this sunlight.

“ _Arthur_!”

Merlin was too far away. The clattering of swords fast approaching swallowed his cry whole. His voice could not reach Arthur, and he feared he wouldn’t be able to get there in time, either.

He couldn’t waste another moment to fear, no matter how his bones shook. 

He ran.

 

///

 

Arthur had followed Mordred up the four floors in of the flat building until he reached the metal door leading to the roof. He’d heard it slam shut seconds ago, when he was still winding his dizzy way up from floor three. He burst through the door and into the afternoon sunlight.

Mordred was ready for him, across the roof, beyond the heating units and ventilation ducts protruding from the cement. He had his sword raised, and Arthur noticed it lacked a chip in the steel. That was not the sword that had killed him. 

Briefly, he wondered why Mordred hadn’t used that blade, but he was grateful. Arthur raised his sword, confident that his weapon was the superior one. 

And then he noticed something else hanging from Mordred’s side: a silver chalice that glimmered unnaturally against the light of day. 

It was the Cup of Life. It had to be. 

Arthur’s pulse raced in his ears as he realised he could end this war now. He could disband the Neos before any more of his men had to die.

“Put the sword down, Mordred,” Arthur warned, giving him the opportunity to turn himself in before Arthur’s anger won over and urged him to kill Mordred. He paced to the side, one foot stepping tentatively in front of the other. Mordred did the same in the opposite direction. They walked circles around the roof, waiting for the other to strike. 

“Not until it runs you through,” Mordred answered darkly, and Arthur knew, no matter how angry he was at his former knight, he could never bring himself to hate Mordred.

“This is senseless. You’ll gain nothing from killing me. Only your own peace of mind.”

“It will gain Morgana the throne.”

Arthur bit his tongue, cursing inwardly. He could not afford to grieve for Morgana. He’d done that enough when she still drew breath, and he’d do it again when all this was over. 

“I know that’s why you’ve come here. For her,” Arthur told him, considering whether or not he should let Mordred know his efforts were for not. Morgana was gone. However, before he could make up his mind, Mordred seethed.

“I’ve come here for you!”

He levelled his sword and charged forward, the tip of his blade pointed to Arthur’s chest, in the same spot his scar was. The first time, in Camlann, Arthur had been thrown off his guard. He hadn’t expected to see Mordred on the battlefield, much less as the phantom who drove his blade clean through him. 

This time, however, Arthur had plenty of time to get used to the idea. And he was ready.

His blade met Mordred’s, clashing and ringing. They danced around each other, Arthur watching Mordred’s wrists and Mordred watching Arthur’s feet. Neither of them was able to get a clean shot. 

With ragged breaths, they fell back to rest. Arthur held his sword at the ready, twisting his fists around the hilt. Inside his right hand glove, the red torn fabric of Merlin’s scarf tightened and slackened against his movements.

“It’s no use, Mordred,” he said. “I know how you fight. I trained you, remember?”

“Yes, which means I know how you fight. And I know how to beat you!” 

With Arthur’s chest still burning from exertion, Mordred let out a cry and plunged forward again. He was more rabid than before, each swipe ferocious. He didn’t mean to wound. He meant to kill, given the chance. 

But he’d tire soon enough.

Arthur allowed Mordred to give into his rage, and focused only on defending himself from Mordred’s blows. It wasn’t until Mordred slowed did Arthur switch to the offense. He twirled his sword into Mordred, striking down fast near the hilt of Mordred’s blade. At the same moment, he jumped up, kicking Mordred in the chest.

It off-balanced Mordred, and sent his sword clattering out his hands. He stumbled backward, clutching his chest. Arthur kicked the sword away, making it slide across the roof and hit the barrier on the side. 

Mordred cried out, his eyes blazing as he did. Arthur’s went wide as he realised what was coming—a moment too slow. He was ripped off his feet and thrown backwards. His own sword slid from his hand as he hit the cement floor.

His vision went dark around the edges, but he didn’t lose consciousness. The air had been knocked from him, though, and he coughed and sputtered in attempt to get it back. 

“Do not forget,” Mordred warned, “you are powerless without your sword, but I am not.”

Arthur looked to his side, trying to locate his sword. Its metal glinted out of arm’s reach. It had landed beneath one of the heating units. He wouldn’t be able to get to it in time, but if he were die, he wouldn’t do it on his back.

He rolled, trying to get to his feet, and was reminded of his gun as his hip pressed it against the roof. He shook his head, trying to regain his focus and clear his vision. He had one shot at this. 

One.

One bullet forged from a dragon’s breath left. 

He realised then that he may not survive this war, but he could ensure his men did. He could end it.

He relaxed himself, resolved in what he had to do. Keeping the tension from his muscles, he rolled back into his spine and took the shotgun from its holster. Swiftly, before Mordred could move, Arthur clicked back the safety and pointed, doing all he could to concentrate on his mark. 

With the pull of the trigger, the gun erupted, the kickback stealing more breath from Arthur. 

The bullet hit its target: the chalice hanging from Mordred’s hip. The silver didn’t dent, but the Cup snapped off of Mordred’s belt and toppled to the floor. The crimson blood inside poured out, spilling into the grooves of the concrete. The magic in the bullet had done its job.

The Cup rolled away towards the corner of the roof.

Mordred shouted something, but Arthur couldn’t say what. His breath had finally caught up to him, and he staggered to his feet. He tossed his gun aside, knowing it was now useless.

“It seems you haven’t much power anymore, Sir Mordred,” Arthur said, taking in a deep breath and drawing himself to full height.

Mordred, too, squared his shoulders. He reached for the gun at his hip and pulled it out swiftly. He fired a round in Arthur’s direction, but Arthur jumped out of the way. The bullet sparked against the roof’s metal door. 

Before Mordred could lose another shot, Arthur charged at him. He slammed himself into Mordred, grabbing his arm and keeping it at bay so he couldn’t turn the run around. Mordred kicked at him, trying to free himself. Arthur elbowed him in the chest and went for the gun, but Mordred held it tight. 

Arthur had to get that weapon. 

If he knew one thing for certain, it was this: the man who ended up with the gun would walk away from this fight alive; the other would die.

 

///

 

Lancelot’s sword was locked against a Neo soldier’s. His opponent was pressing down hard, trying to topple Lancelot off his balance. It might have worked if Lancelot didn’t knee him in the shin and push the soldier off him.

The soldier fumbled back a few steps, the fray of the surrounding skirmish around him. The two sides had begun the fight hunkered down in opposite buildings, using the bricks and wood as defence. It had been long since both sides ran out of bullets and grenades, and had charged each other with swords and fists. Bodies lay on the street, many of them bearing the British colours. But the Neos had lost many men to dust when the bullets still flew, and Lancelot tried not to be disheartened.

They were winning.

The soldier let out a yell and levelled his sword, rushing forward. Lancelot sidestepped, and missed the tip of the soldier’s blade. He drove the point of his own sword into the man’s gut, ripping past the Kevlar and out the other side.

The soldier gave another shout and turned to dust. His weapon clattered to the street.

Lancelot blinked, thrown off by what had just happened. He did not know if the soldier had been pledged to the Cup of Life or not, but his sword was a mortal blade. It could not kill an immortal fighter. 

And then he looked around, watching as the other Neo soldiers in the area burst into dust mid-fight. It unbalanced some of the British soldiers as they thrust their weapons, and it had saved others from being dealt a deadly blow. All of them peered around with their eyes wide and their jaws hinged open. 

The Neo soldiers left standing appeared equally as thrown. Two of them stood their ground, but the majority knew the fight was lost and retreated. Many of the British gave chase.

Lancelot looked at the pile of dust at his feet, and recalled the first time he’d seen an immortal army reduced to ash. Their link to the Cup of Life had been broken somehow.

He gave a sigh of immense relief. It was over. 

“Lancelot!” 

He looked up as his name echoed down the street. Gwen was a couple of blocks away, a solid, whole being in a sea of clearing grenade smoke and rubble.

Lancelot felt as if she were a dream. He began to smile, but it was quickly aborted when a Neo soldier, still refusing to give up the fight, appeared behind her. His weapon was raised.

“Gwen!” Lancelot cried in warning. Already, he was sprinting towards her.

She spun around to meet the soldier head-on. He charged, not far from her. Lancelot wouldn’t get there in time.

Gwen took something out of her belt—a small dagger—and brandished it before the soldier. The man skidded to a halt as he realised she was armed, giving Lancelot the time he needed to catch up. 

Lancelot met his blade, the metal singing against each other. Gwen formed a fist around the ornate handle of her dagger and let out a yell as she plunged it into the soldier’s neck, right above his vest.

The soldier sputtered and went down, dropping his weapon in the process.

Lancelot gaped at her. He’d never seen this side of her before. She merely shrugged, pulling an innocent face. “I’m full of surprises.” 

“I should say so,” he said, and his worry finally caught up with him, though she’d more than proven she could take care of herself. “What are you doing here? I thought you were aiding Gaius?” 

“Part of the hospital was lost in the air raid,” she told him. “I came looking for Arthur or one of you to send more soldiers to defend it, but now . . .” She looked around, gobsmacked. “That won’t be necessary, will it? 

He followed her vision. The street had gone quite. The Neos would be scattering or surrendering.

“I don’t think so.”

She held her hand to her smile, tears sprouting in her eyes. “We won, didn’t we?”

The words warmed Lancelot’s chest. He allowed himself a grin, too. He could feel the tension rising from his muscles. Yes, they’d won. The fight was over. The rebuilding could begin. 

He was just about to say all this when a shout echoed off the sky. It drew both their attention. 

“What was that?” Gwen worried, and Lancelot’s shoulders tightened into a knot again as he surveyed the area. He saw movement on the roof of a flat building in the near distance. Two shadows were scuffling. One man had the other pressed against the side of the roof, nearly pushing him over. 

Lancelot squinted at the losing man. 

“It’s Mordred,” Gwen said, seeing it, too. 

Mordred managed to gain his footing and pushed the other man away. They both disappeared out of view again, the side of the roof blocking them.

“And Arthur,” Lancelot realised, cold dread slinking down his spine. 

They’d kill each other.

Without room for thought, both Lancelot and Gwen ran towards the building.

 

///

 

Everything was a blur of motion—steel and concrete and heavy grey doors. Merlin took the steps two at a time, and ignored the occasional dull pain in his calves and ankles when he landed on them wrong. 

He sent his magic forwards, praying it got to Arthur in time. It moved faster than his legs could carry him. It shot up to the roof, and he felt a whirl of activity and confusion. He tasted iron in his mouth, and couldn’t tell if it was Arthur’s or Mordred’s. His bones bruised and his lungs begged for air.

Finally, when he was sure he’d been too late, he burst through the door to the roof. Arthur and Mordred were fighting. The Cup had rolled away near a heating unit. Two swords rested nearby. If only Arthur could get to his—No. He’d kill Mordrd if he did. He’d kill himself. 

Mordred landed a heavy blow to Arthur’s jaw, causing him to stagger. Merlin felt it as clearly as if it had been a strike to his own flesh. In the distraction, Mordred levelled the gun he and Arthur had been fighting for and leapt backward. He held it in two hands, knuckles white and red around the grip, pointed at Arthur.

Merlin shouted. He wasn’t sure what. His feet carried him towards Arthur. Before he reached him, Mordred demanded, “Don’t move—or, I swear to you, I will shoot him down!” 

Merlin froze. It wasn’t so much Mordred’s words that halted him, but rather the frenzy in his eyes. He would do it, Merlin knew. And still, Merlin’s muscles twitched towards Arthur. He wanted so badly to go to him. 

Knowing this, Arthur caught Merlin’s eyes and gave him a nod. He no doubt meant it to be firm, but it was weakened by pain and exhaustion. But he was okay—no severe injuries, no head trauma. He was fine. Merlin breathed.

“Good,” Mordred said, still pointing the gun. “These bullets were created for you, _Emrys_. They were made from the sword Aithusa forged me. If I shoot Arthur, there will still be one left for you to use on yourself. You may need it—unless you take me to where you’re keeping Morgana. Now!” 

Merlin’s expression hardened. They couldn’t tell Mordred the truth. There was no telling how he’d react. 

“We can’t,” Arthur said, not giving much away. It was mostly to buy them both time to think. He was counting on Merlin to come up with something clever, some excuse—some lie. 

Mordred ground his teeth. “You will. I will see her now!”

Arthur shook his head. “You’ve lost, Mordred. Your army’s gone. You have no power anymore!” 

Of course, Arthur would fail to see that Mordred had a gun aimed at his heart. From where Merlin was standing, it was quite an effective bargaining chip. In fact, Mordred may have had all the cards in that moment.

But Merlin still had his magic. He could disarm Mordred. He’d have to be quick. He had to be sneaky. He had to pick the exact right moment. 

“Take me to her!” Mordred raged, and charged a few steps forward. The line of his arm became ramrod straight as he did so. It made Merlin forget all else but his base instinct to protect Arthur. He moved forward, too. 

“Stop!” Mordred yelled, making Merlin remember himself. “Don’t think I won’t sacrifice myself to kill Arthur!” 

Merlin felt like he’d been punched in the gut. All breath left him. His muscles tensed, and then relaxed. Something akin to calm waded through him.

So, this was it. This is how Arthur would learn the truth.

Arthur must have looked confused, because Mordred’s gaze flashed in understanding, and then victory. “You don’t know,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “Merlin didn’t tell you, did he?” A grin spread across Mordred’s face. He began to laugh. “All this time, and he’s still keeping secrets from you!”

Arthur turned his head again, slowly this time, to find Merlin. His expression was lined with hesitation and disbelief. He was trying so hard to stay his doubts, to remain trusting. 

“Our fates are bound,” Mordred told him laughingly. “If you kill me, you die; and if I’m to kill you . . .” He swayed the gun slightly, as though it finished the sentence for him. And it did.

“No,” Arthur refused, shaking his head. He was trying so, _so_ hard. Merlin wished he would have believed Mordred right away. It would have made it easier. Right now, the guilt was crippling.

_You’re not a sorcerer, Merlin. I would know._

Arthur had always trusted Merlin too much. But Merlin had only ever done what he thought was right—what would protect Arthur. There were just some things Arthur didn’t need to know. It was better that way. 

Right now, it didn’t feel better.

“This is just a distraction,” Arthur asserted.

Merlin couldn’t allow him to believe that. “It’s true,” he admitted. Arthur’s neck snapped in his direction. Was that betrayal or fear in his eyes? It was the second time Merlin had received that look, and he still couldn’t decide. Perhaps it was both.

“I’ve known for some time.” 

Arthur closed his eyes for longer than a blink but shorter than a sigh. He was deciding whether or not this changed anything. Arthur always did make up his mind quickly. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he decided, and Merlin felt like he could finally breathe again. Arthur had decided to trust him. Arthur had chosen him.

Arthur turned back to Mordred, and squared his shoulders in preparation for whatever came next. “You’ll never see Morgana again,” he said. “She’s gone.”

For a long time, no one moved. Mordred had become a statue of marble and iron. His grip was just as tight around the gun.

“You’re lying,” he said at last, as though the determination in his voice would make it so.

“You’ve lost,” Arthur told him again, his tone more commanding this time. He did not sound victorious. In fact, he sounded almost sorry that things turned out this way. Perhaps he was.

Merlin wasn’t sorry. He’d see too many civilizations rise and fall to mourn for one that might have been, so long as that empire didn’t belong to Arthur. 

“Morgana’s gone; your army is defeated. You’re alone, Mordred,” Arthur went on. 

“No.” Mordred repeated the word again and again, the volume of his voice rising each time, bringing with it a wave of vengeful energy. “You’re lying!” His voice was thick. His cheeks were flush, and eyes too bright against their bloodshot whites. He already knew the truth.

At once, his expression hardened. Such malice did not belong on a face so young.

He looked to Merlin. “You killed her.”

Of course, Mordred’s logic would settle on that conclusion. Briefly, Merlin considered correcting him. He decided against it. It was better to let Mordred believe he had no hope of finding Morgana, lest he tear apart the heavens and earth to get her back. He’d never stop. 

“I killed her,” Merlin lied. Arthur didn’t flinch. 

Mordred searched the floor wildly, but Merlin didn’t know what he was looking for. Apparently, he didn’t find it, because he staggered back a few steps until his heel connected with the edge of the roof. Merlin felt Mordred’s heart jump in fear of the fall. Or maybe that was just his own heart.

Mordred looked behind him at the long way down. He stared at it for much too long before returning his attention to the men before him. 

And that’s when Merlin knew his mistake. It had not been better to make Mordred realise his utter defeat. It had not been better to take away his hope.

A world made for magicians had been Morgana’s goal. It had been her life mission, the reason she’d been brought back to life. Mordred had only ever cared about revenge.

“I can still do right by her,” Mordred considered barely above a whisper. 

Whatever he was going to do, Merlin had to stop it.

“I can still avenge her!” he was shouting again, and waving the gun about. “Morgana—and Kara!”

Arthur took a step forward. He held out his hand fearlessly. But Merlin was scared enough for the both of them.

“You and I both know Kara made her own choices,” Arthur told him. “As did Morgana.”

“No!” The gun was aimed for him again. Merlin’s magic bubbled up close to his skin. It was now or never.

“They had no ability to chose! _You_ took it away from them! You and your father, in your crusade!” 

“Give me the gun, Mordred,” Arthur coaxed, as though a tiny part of him still saw Mordred has his young knight, as someone who could be saved. “It’s over now.” 

“Yes,” Mordred agreed, voice too calm now. “It’s over.”

The gun clicked as he pulled back the hammer. Merlin was out of time. He stepped in front of Arthur, between him and the bullet.

But Mordred had never planned to shoot Arthur.

He laughed again, the ghost of a grin lighting his eyes. Too swiftly, without an ounce of hesitation, he pressed the tip of the barrel under his jaw, and a crack as loud as thunder broke through the world. 

“ _No_!” 

Merlin sprang forward. He could fix this. He could fix this. He _had_ to fix this!

Mordred’s body fell backwards, off the roof. Merlin sprinted to the edge and fell to his knees. His arm swiped down through the air, as though he could reach Mordred in time. Even as he did it, he knew it was a lost cause. Gravity was too quick for him.

Mordred’s body was on the pavement below. His limbs were twisted in unnatural angles. A pool of crimson blossomed out from beneath him. He looked crushed, small, broken.

Like Merlin’s heart.

He hadn’t used magic to make time slow, but it had anyway. It was giving him what he needed to act quickly, to _think_ , but his mind blanked. His bones refused to move. 

He looked over his shoulder. His eyes locked with Arthur’s. Arthur was just standing there, completely still, and for a moment Merlin allowed himself the hope that he was okay. But there was something working behind Arthur’s eyes. It was a funny expression, like he was feeling his body shut down on him. 

Arthur had died before. He knew what it felt like. 

There was no confusion in his eyes. He showed only a progression of fear, then regret, then acceptance, and then courage. And then the blues of his gaze veiled. He fell. 

Across the roof, the door slammed open again. It was Lancelot and Gwen.

“Arthur!” Gwen called. She rushed forward, but Lancelot wrapped his arms around her waist to hold her back. He cooed her name shallowly to calm her. He had immediately understood what happened. Merlin didn’t know how. He hadn’t even processed it himself. 

But then time sped up again, like it was making up the motion, and he understood. 

He had no one to restrain him. He scrambled until he was at Arthur’s side, Arthur’s head in his lap as Merlin embraced him in something too desperate to be a hug. “Arthur, Arthur, no,” he was saying. “Stay with me, Arthur. Please. Stay with me.”

It hadn’t worked the first time. Why would it now?

Arthur didn’t move.

Merlin ran his fingers across Arthur’s cheeks. He combed them through Arthur’s hair. He had to wake up. There had to be some spell—something—to bring him back. This was not the way it was supposed to go. Arthur was supposed to be king. He was supposed to lead Britain into a new era. He was supposed to live. 

“Come back,” Merlin whispered through hitching breaths. Prayer did nothing. His hope was dwindling by the moment.

Arthur’s eyes remained closed. Merlin would do anything to have them open again.

“Come back to me.”

He would do anything to save Arthur. He would even give his own life.

Something glinted in the corner of his eye, something a few feet away on the roof. Merlin looked at it. The Cup of Life.

He stretched out his fingers to it, and his eyes sparkled gold. It flew into his hand. The metal was cold, but it didn’t shock him. He was too numb for it. 

As he looked at his warped reflection in its surface, he watched a hundred lifetimes appear and disappear—all those years, all those miles crossed, all those friends gone and lives left behind. He saw his life in Camelot, and his life in the recent years with Arthur, and all the tiny, insignificant bits in between. 

The memories came and they went as quickly as water through his fingers.

He verbalized the incantation. He didn’t have to, but it felt like the right thing to do. Once last use of the magic he held so dear; one last spell to wash away the blood and the grime saturating Arthur’s city, and to wash away Merlin life.

At once, the sky darkened and it began to pour. Merlin lifted the Cup up, and let the droplets clink inside the metal. The rest was a hiss of white noise around him.

“Merlin!” a shout broke through the ether. It sounded angry; it sounded panicked.

Merlin half-looked over his shoulder to Kilgharrah. 

“What are you doing?” Kilgharrah demanded. 

“I willingly give my life for Arthur’s.” How many times had he said that? Each time, he’d meant it, but never more than this one. 

“Stop this!” Kilgharrah told him. “You must think about what you’re doing.” 

Merlin didn’t need to think. For once, he knew he was doing the right thing. He was offering Arthur his life; it was the only thing Merlin had left to give. Oh, it could have been a better one, full of a future of boring banquets and excruciating committee meetings, with loving citizens and a world at peace, with Arthur, with children, with happiness. Oh, it could have been a shining life. 

But it wasn’t. It would never be.

Merlin’s life remained what it had always been: Arthur’s. Not because of duty of design, but because of something much dearer.

Because he belonged to Arthur, and Arthur belonged to him. But Merlin was the past, and Arthur the future; and they had only met fleetingly in the middle. 

“Your life is not like any other. You are not mortal. There is no telling what might happen should you go through with this,” Kilgharrah was saying.

Merlin was soaked through by now. Water was chilling him to the bone, weighing down his clothes, and seeping into his eyes and lips. It might have been welcomed, given a few more weeks. Summer was almost upon them. 

“Will he live?” Merlin demanded. It was the most important thing—the _only_ important thing. 

Kilgharrah didn’t answer the question directly. Merlin didn’t know why he’d expected him to. “There will be consequences!”

Merlin repeated the question more urgently. Every moment wasted was another second of Arthur no longer in the world. Merlin didn’t want to live in that world any longer than need be.

Kilgharrah hesitated. It was enough for Merlin to know the answer. Still Kilgharrah urged, “If you do this, the course of destiny will never again be able to repair—.” 

Merlin was no longer interested in destiny. 

“I will not let destiny rule me any more,” he said. It wasn’t an argument. It was a fact. For as long as he could remember, forces beyond his control had made his choices for him—it wrote him like a book before he was even born. No more. “This time, I’m making my own choice.” 

Kilgharrah’s face went long with disappointment. “Even if it kills you?”

“Then my death will be my own!” Destiny had ruled his life. He wouldn’t let it have his death. He wouldn’t let it touch his death.

A rush of rebellion swelled in his chest, thick and exhilarating, and he knew he was doing the right thing. It was maddening, being able to choose when and how he’d come to an end. It was maddening to choose anything at all. 

For the first time. For the last time. 

If he were to die, he’d die free. And he’d make sure Arthur would live free from the constraints that bound Merlin like shackles. 

“Merlin—,” Kilgharrah tried in one last desperate attempt. 

Merlin had already made up his mind.

“I won’t lose him again!” he roared. He looked back to Arthur and cradled him gently, possessively. A smile crept onto his face, however small and broken it was. Within him ebbed a sadness so large, it almost felt like happiness.

His next words couldn’t be heard over the rain, but it didn’t matter. They were meant for no one but Arthur.

“I love him.”

There was a pause, long and heavy. The rain continued to batter down. 

“I have failed you, Merlin,” the dragon said, his voice an open wound. “I am sorry.”

Merlin shook his head, tore his eyes from Arthur, and looked fully around at Kilgharrah. The dragon had not failed him. He only ever wanted to guide Merlin, to help him succeed. In fact, Merlin was fairly certain he was the one who failed Kilgharrah. But he couldn’t change the past. He could only make up for his mistakes now. 

“No. I should I have listened to you.” 

“Oh, Merlin,” Kilgharrah said, “which time?” His expression suggested humour, and that was how Merlin knew that the dragon would not try to prevent him from saving Arthur. He knew Merlin was resigned to this. 

And how was he supposed to answer? Was he meant to apologize, too? No. They’d known each other too long for that, and Kilgharrah would know it was insincere. If Merlin could go back, he wouldn’t change a day. 

He knew that as he looked upon Arthur’s face, so serene he might have been sleeping. Merlin never knew such a grief could be possible: the sort that meant he was happy, that he had something to lose. He never knew sorrow could feel so much like fear.

So, instead of an apology, he told the dragon something he should have said before: “Thank you, old friend. Goodbye.” 

Kilgharrah fell silent.

The Cup overflowing, Merlin angled Arthur’s head and pressed the rim to his lips. It was hard to do without sloshing the water out because his hands were shaking so; but he made sure the drink went down before lifting it up again. Then, he looked up to Gwen, whose lips parted when she met his eyes. Behind her, Lancelot had gone still and steady. Nether of them had ever tried to stop him. They knew they never could, and Merlin was grateful to have two such friends who understood him so wholly.

They would take care of Arthur. They would ensure he grew into the king that was promised. More than that, they loved him with all their might—deeply, bravely, completely. Merlin was leaving Arthur in good hands, and that much at least gave him peace. 

It was over. It was done. The Neos were defeated, Morgana was gone, Mordred was dead. Nothing stood in Arthur’s way. There was nothing left for Merlin to do.

A puddle had collected nearby. Freya was looking up at him, her expression soft and sweet. Near the far corner of the roof, Balinor stood watching. They had been Merlin’s guides through life, and now he was finally joining them in death.

He wondered if that’s all he would become: a ghost, forever watching over the ones he loved. Or maybe he’d just go to sleep. He didn’t know which he hoped for. 

He’d quite like to see Arthur again.

But nothing was promised, and Arthur still had a long way to go until they could be together again. 

Merlin lifted the Cup to his lips and drank. The water was cool as it went down his throat, and it loosened the constriction in his chest. He didn’t feel at once different, but he was aware of how tired he suddenly felt—or, no, how tired he’d been for a long time.

He leaned down and pressed his forehead to Arthur’s. He placed a quick kiss to Arthur’s lips. They were still warm, still with a hint of life in them. The pressure lingered on Merlin’s skin, and he hoped Arthur would feel it, too, when he woke up—at least for a little while. He didn’t have to hold on to the feeling; he didn’t have to remember it, or Merlin. But, in the first few moments, Arthur would need the assurance. He would need to know that he was loved, and that Merlin had chosen this.

“My soul,” he whispered against Arthur’s ear before parting from him.

Carefully, he shifted Arthur’s head from his knees and placed it on the roof. He laid down next to Arthur, and already felt a little high, a little like the world was somehow very far away from him. He blinked as he watched the raindrops fall towards him, and wondered if it would rain forever without him alive to stop it.

His thoughts felt very heavy around him, and his body too light.

His skin tingled as his magic waded away from him, sinking through his body and unfurling out of his fingertips. It would not yet be returned to the air, the sea, the earth. It would wrap Arthur in a cocoon, and protect him always. The Old Religion had given him so much magic, but he wasn’t done with it yet. It would continue to serve Arthur, even after Merlin could not.

As his magic left him, it took all sensation with it. Touch died away. The sound of the water splashing echoed into nothing. The light became hazy. His thoughts became sluggish and fractured.

In the patterns of the cascading rain, he saw another’s life—Arthur’s. Arthur’s past, his future. He saw Arthur standing before a crowd, a crown of gold adorning his head. He would become more than a legend, more than myth. He would be real, for all to see. A king. 

They had sung songs about him. They had written tales about him. They had named mountains after him.

And now, they would know him.

The last of Merlin’s magic drained from him. He felt it go. It was his last lifeline. The air lifted from his lungs and passed to Arthur—as they had shared breath so often between them, while sleeping in the night, walking beside each other, or doing nothing at all. The air would pass out of Merlin’s lungs, into Arthur’s, and back again.

Not back again.

Not this time.

He let his eyes slip shut. He saw no more.


	14. Chapter 14

There was a soft, steady beeping sound coming from somewhere very distant. He heard murmurs all around him, but he couldn’t make out the words. They sounded like they were underwater.

They grew louder, pulling Merlin into consciousness—a tether dragging him out of the dark ravine. He blinked awake, seeing only white at first. Soon, his eyes adjusted, and colours and shapes returned to him. He was in a hospital room, wearing a gown instead of his clothes. A plastic band was around his wrist.

He yawned and sat up to look around. His room was private, but the door was open and people occasionally walked past it. He didn’t call out for any of them, even the doctors and nurses he recognised. He didn’t want an intrusion just yet, as he rubbed the tired from his eyes and tried to figure out how to he was alive.

He should have been dead. And yet, he only felt weak. He was exhausted, even though he’d just woken up. He looked down at his hands, inspected his skin, listened to the magic flowing just beneath the surface. Everything seemed to be in order.

Everything was fine. He should have been dead. But he felt _alive_. He could feel his heart beating, though they thumped at a resting rate; his breaths rattled through his lungs and mixed with the air. Outside, there were morning birds signing. It was drizzling with a slight breeze that made umbrellas useless, and the earth smelt ripe. He knew it without even looking out the window.

Inside, his room was fragrant from the flower bouquets that lined every flat surface. Merlin looked to the largest one of his nightstand, colourful sunflowers and daisies, and saw a card sticking out of it with the message: _Love, Gwen and Lancelot_. There were also gifts scattered about the flower vases: plush dragons and teddy bears, giant polka-dot balloons reading _get well soon_ , and one velvet blue pointed hat with cartoon stars stitched into it. 

And cards. Lots of cards. Merlin plucked the one closest to him and opened it up. It was from a primary school class in West Bromwich, and all the children had signed their names in messy, barely legible penmanship. Some of them even wrote quick notes like _feel better_ or _mummy cried when she heard you were sick_ or _kiss Daggy when you wake up for me_.

A familiar voice sounded in the corridor, making Merlin snap out of his thoughts. He dropped his hands to his lap, the card with it. Gaius was snipping out orders, and then there was nothing but footfalls until he peeked his head into Merlin’s room. Instantly, he went white with shock.

“Merlin? How long have you been awake?”

Merlin blinked again, like he didn’t understand the question. When his smarts caught up to him, Gaius was already at his bedside pulling out a stethoscope. “Not long. A minute, maybe.” The metal was cold against Merlin’s chest. His spine seized, but Gaius didn’t pull away until he was satisfied. 

“You gave us all quite a fright, my boy,” Gaius reproved, and Merlin instinctually felt apologetic, even though he didn’t regret his actions. “When I heard you’d tried to sacrifice your life for Arthur’s . . . Merlin, why didn’t you tell me his and Mordred’s fates were bound? I feared you might have taken Arthur’s place in binding yourself with Mordred when you used the Cup of Life.”

_Mordred_ , Merlin thought, worrying if he was still alive and what had become of him. But the question that escaped him was, “Arthur?” 

Whatever Mordred’s fate had been, it could wait. Arthur was more important.

“He’s fine, Merlin,” Gaius said, and Merlin remembered to breathe. “He’s been at your side every moment he could. He’s even held a few meetings in this room.” 

Merlin was suddenly embarrassed. It was a strange thought, the business of government being conducted in the room over him as he slept. It was a bit of an invasion of privacy, but he tried not to dwell on it. Arthur hadn’t wanted to leave him. The thought of that surpassed all others.

Except one. “How long was I asleep?”

“A little over a week,” said Gaius, sitting at the end of the small mattress.

The room was suddenly spinning. He’d been out for a week. How could that be? Over a thousand years, and he’d never missed a day, and suddenly he’d missed nine. 

“How are you feeling, Merlin?” Gaius worried.

Merlin shrugged. “Fine,” he said, despite the sensation tickling the back of his mind. He had no name for it. He’d never felt anything like it before.

“Where’s Arthur now?”

Gaius pressed his lips together, deciding whether or not to burden Merlin with the information when he should have been caring for himself. Merlin gave him big, pleading eyes, and Gaius melted.

“In the Great Hall. The final adjustments are being made to the Charter,” said Gaius. Merlin nodded, thankful that the world hadn’t stopped just because he had. More than that, he was grateful nothing bad had happened while he couldn’t protect Arthur. 

Shuffling, Gaius said, “Arthur will want to know you’re awake. He’s had quit a full week, what with plans for reconstruction of the city and moving people back into their homes after the evacuation—and of course planning for the coronation. And, just yesterday, he met with Matthew Donahue.”

Merlin jerked his head back in surprise. He hadn’t expected to hear that name upon waking up. “Matthew Donahue? The President of Ireland?”

“Yes, that one,” Gaius affirmed. “Since the Neo’s defeat here, many have escaped to Ireland. The President wants them found before they get the chance to terrorize his country, and of course Arthur wants to bring them to justice. The Irish have agreed to work with us.”

“He made an alliance,” Merlin interpreted. He leaned back against the headboard, simultaneously feeling light and heavy. Ireland was a part of Albion. Though it may have not been officially a part of the union, an alliance was the next best thing.

“He did it,” Merlin said, his eyes glistening. “He united Albion.” He clapped his hand over his grin and felt a tear roll down to his fingers.

“You both did it, Merlin,” Gaius said, placing a hand on Merlin’s knee. “It is what you’ve both been striving for, even in Camelot. You have brought peace, my boy.”

Merlin beamed at him, letting the words wash over him. He’d waited to hear them for so long.

“Now.” Gaius picked himself up. “I will send a messenger to the Great Hall. Arthur will want to know you’re awake.” 

Merlin nodded, both excited and fearful of seeing Arthur again, and Gaius left the room.

However, not a moment after Gaius exited, Merlin felt a familiar presence tickle his skin. Arthur was already on his way. He’d just gotten to the hospital. Merlin closed his eyes into the sensation, and reached out to Arthur with his magic. He felt the moment Arthur’s heart rate picked up, as he must have known Merlin was conscious.

A minute later, Merlin heard very distinctive footsteps rushing down the corridor, paired with a murmuring of voices addressing “your majesty” or “your highness.” Arthur didn’t stop for any of them. He skidded to a halt outside Merlin’s room, clutching the doorframe to catch himself. 

As soon as their eyes locked, the forlorn, desperate hope in Arthur’s expression became exuberance. “Merlin!” he shouted into a laugh.

Merlin’s own laugh was mixed with tears. On that rooftop, he hadn’t expected to see Arthur again. He hadn’t expected he’d ever get the chance to feel Arthur’s heartbeat.

Arthur rushed up to the bed and sat down close. He grabbed Merlin’s shoulders to convince himself that Merlin was okay, and quickly looked him up and down for any sign of injury. 

“I thought—,” Arthur began, swallowing the rest of the words. His smile had faded somewhat as his fears caught up to him. 

“I thought so, too,” Merlin answered, hearing the words he did not say. He wrapped both hands around the back of Arthur’s neck and leaned him in for a kiss. When it broke, Arthur pressed his forehead against Merlin’s. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” Arthur told him, but the demand had no anger behind it. Perhaps it once had, but it was only fuelled by grief. He could almost imagine Arthur waking up on the roof and only half-listening to what Gwen and Lancelot recounted for him. He imagined Arthur scooping Merlin’s body into his arms and rushing him to hospital, demanding the doctors fix him. And Gaius . . . Merlin did not want to dwell on what Gaius’ reaction must have been upon seeing the body.

He must have given them all quite a scare, but Merlin was glad it had been his body and not Arthur’s. 

“What? Save your arse?”

Arthur didn’t find it amusing. He leaned back, and fixed Merlin with a stare that tried to be stern. “How you can still think my life has more value than yours—.”

Merlin shook his head. “It’s not that.” The words surprised even him. He had never valued his own life, especially when he’d lived it for Arthur. But, for the first time, he found himself not looking towards the future, but wishing to live in the present. He felt such an urgency to live a good life, and he couldn’t pinpoint why or when that had begun. 

“I did it for selfish reasons,” he joked, and brushed his fingers through Arthur’s hair. “Thought it was time you missed me for a bit.” 

“Well, it was horrible.”

“Sorry.” And Merlin realised he truly was. His gaze dropped. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Mordred. I just—.”

“Lancelot explained,” Arthur cut in, saving Merlin from the tripping apology. “I understand why you did it. Just promise me, from now on, there won’t be any secrets between us.”

Merlin nodded, resolving to keep that promise.

“Good.”

Arthur gave him another once over, and his brows knit in a mixture of confusion and wonder. “How are you still alive?”

“Complaining?” 

Arthur shrugged, pulling a noncommittal face that made Merlin rumble. And then he remembered what Kilgharrah said about there being consequences to using the Cup. He looked over Arthur, too, but didn’t see anything different.

“You’re feeling all right, aren’t you? Nothing’s . . . changed?”

Arthur pouted in thought and shook his head. Merlin’s concern didn’t dwindle, but he was glad Arthur was alive and well. 

“Come here, you clotpole.” Merlin pulled him in closer until their lips met. He closed his eyes into the kiss, savouring the press of Arthur lips, soft and radiant, against his, the silky touch of Arthur’s hair at his fingertips, the warmth of his skin, and the shared breath seeping into Merlin’s lungs.

“Well,” came Gaius’ voice from the doorway, and Arthur broke away from Merlin like a schoolboy who had just gotten caught by his parents. “I came in to tell you that Arthur was already on his way, but I suppose you already know that, Merlin.” 

Merlin grinned mischievously. “I think I figured it out.”

“When can Merlin come home?” Arthur asked at once, eagerly. 

Gaius came closer and placed the back of his hand to Merlin’s forehead as if checking for a temperature. “I’d like the doctors to run a few more tests, but I don’t see why we can’t release him this afternoon.” 

“Thank god,” Arthur sighed. “The sooner we get him out of here and away from Mordred, the better.” 

Mordred. In all the excitement, Merlin had almost forgotten. His face instantly fell. “Where is Mordred?” he dared ask. His stomach was suddenly in knots.

Gaius straightened out, and looked very severe. “In the next ward.” 

Merlin cursed under his breath. “He’s alive.” 

Gaius and Arthur shared a look. “Perhaps you should see for yourself,” Gaius said, teetering to the other side of the room and producing a hospital wheelchair from the cupboard. 

Merlin knew it was for him, but he didn’t want it. If he was going to face Mordred, he was going to do it on his feet. He ripped the blankets off his bare legs, ignoring the sudden chill and Arthur’s protests, and got out of bed. “I don’t need that,” he said, but it wasn’t very convincing. He was swaying slightly, and he got a burst of lightheadedness as the blood rushed to his head. He’d stood up too quickly. Arthur gripped him by the arm to steady him. 

“Like hell you don’t.” 

“Please, Merlin,” Gaius said, wheeling the chair in front of Merlin, “do as you’re told. For me.”

Merlin grumbled. He knew he could make it to the next ward on foot, but Gaius and Arthur were having none of it. It was best not to argue. He wanted to see what became of Mordred. He _had_ to see it.

Reluctantly, he guided himself into the chair.

“No need to be such a grumpy old man, Merlin,” Arthur joked and Gaius began pushing him out the door.

“Very funny,” Merlin droned.

The patients in the hospital were mostly soldiers that had been wounded in the battle, but many of the injuries weren’t life threatening. They would all heal in time. Merlin wondered how much he’d missed in the days after the battle. How many had been taken to the hospital with wounds worse than this? How many had succumbed to them? How many could he have saved had he been awake?

They reached Mordred’s room. He was also placed in private quarters, but the door wasn’t opened, like Merlin’s had been. A guard was posted outside the door. He nodded to Gaius, produced a key from the chain on his belt, and granted them access to the room. 

Inside, Mordred was still on the bed. He, too, had been changed into a hospital gown. A tube attached to a large machine was fed down his throat. At his side, his wrist was chained to the bed with the enchanted shackle that had once been Morgana’s—once been Merlin’s. 

Gaius wheeled Merlin right next to the bed. Mordred didn’t stir. He looked like he was asleep, but Merlin knew it was more than that. 

He’d expected to feel only justice in seeing Mordred like this. He should have felt hatred. While he did, there was also remorse. It snuck up on him, making him question if there was anything he could have done to save Mordred from himself. He recalled the little Druid boy he’d helped escaped Camelot. He remembered Kilgharrah telling him to kill the boy, and Merlin refusing. That day, he’d been so sure he would change destiny—to ensure Mordred would not grow to be their enemy.

Maybe there was nothing he could have done to save Mordred. Maybe he should have just killed him as a child.

Merlin didn’t have the answer. What he did have was a man who had dedicated his life to revenge, and had ended up being his own downfall.

Merlin did not reach out to touch Mordred. He knew how cold the skin would be. There was nothing Merlin could do for him anymore. 

“He’ll live,” Gaius explained, his voice soft, “but the fall broke his body. It’s unlikely he will ever wake up.”

Finally, some good news. 

“You’re sure?” Merlin asked, not wanting to fill himself with hope prematurely.

He felt the air shift as Gaius nodded. “I am. I’ve consulted many of the doctors here, and they all say the same. Mordred is gone. It’s why we were afraid you had used the Cup to bind your fate to him. We did not know if you would ever regain consciousness, Merlin.”

Merlin wondered if he had taken Arthur’s place. Maybe that was the feeling in the back of Merlin’s head that he couldn’t fathom out. He found himself wishing it were so. He would happily take Arthur’s fate.

He glanced up and to his left, where Arthur was regarding Mordred with the same remorse that Merlin felt, only tenfold. Even though Mordred betrayed him, Arthur mourned for his loss. No matter what, Mordred was once one of Arthur’s most promising knights.

Merlin wondered how many times Arthur had visited Mordred in the last week. Would he continue to visit him, until one of them died? If their fates were still bound, and Mordred one day died in his coma, would Arthur die, too? There were too many unknowns, and it was a distraction neither of them could have weighing on their minds. 

Mordred could not stay, collecting dust like an antique in a museum. The thought of him would grow no cobwebs. It would fester, and strike fear into Merlin. 

“We aren’t quite certain what to do with him,” Gaius said. “If he is still bound to Arthur and not you, we cannot end his suffering. But keeping him this way seems almost cruel.” 

Merlin thought so, too, even though he knew he shouldn’t have. It was justice, he tried to remind himself. It sat heavy on his heart. It didn’t feel like justice. It just felt sad. 

“After all he’s done?” Merlin said, still trying to convince himself. 

“It’s worse than prison, Merlin, and worse than a death sentence,” Arthur reasoned, and he must have been projecting. He knew what it meant to be a status—to be held between life and death, unable to touch either side. 

It was just another reason Mordred could not stay. Arthur didn’t need the grief. Besides, Mordred belonged in the past. Merlin and Arthur had to bury him and never look back.

“Yes, Arthur, but I’m afraid until we know more about the situation,” Gaius said, “there’s nothing we can do for him. Unless you have an idea?” 

Merlin scanned Mordred, looking for a sign of life. There was none. As his eyes searched, the rain outside picked up its pace, and the breeze howled much too cold for spring’s end. Merlin had a revelation.

“I think,” he said, craning his neck to look up at Gaius, “I might.”

 

///

 

Merlin had always expected to see the Lake of Avalon again. He supposed, somewhere inside of him, he knew he’d return to it some day. It was an inevitable constant in his life, something he could never fully step away from. In his imagination, he would forever be standing on the banks of the lake, his eyes on the tor and the ruined tower on the isle. He could still feel the water, as cold as death, on his ankles all those days he stood in it like a reed bobbing in the current—at peace with the wind in his hair, drunk and screaming for Arthur to return, or with tears in his eyes that slid down his chin and mixed with the pool below.

Even when the lake had dried up, and even when his travels took him to the other side of the world, he could still see smell the brackish air of this place as if it were a part of him.

How different being there was now with Arthur at his side.

Arthur half-glanced at the lake, uneasy in its presence. He did not dare step foot in the water for fear that he’d be swept away and never return—as if Merlin would ever let him.

Instead, his eyes were on Merlin, standing across the wooden rowboat from him, or on the man inside the boat.

Mordred rested there, his wrists still chained as his arms were folded over his chest. His breaths were shallow and, despite the fact that his eyes were unmoving beneath their lids, he appeared as if he might only be dreaming.

Merlin knew that Arthur felt a soft pang of guilt at sacrificing Mordred to close Avalon’s Gates, but it was for the best. The spirit realm would be his prison forever and he would not know the difference. What was more, this penance felt like some kind of redemption. The Druid boy, the knight of Camelot, Morgana’s right hand—he would save them all in the end. He would heal the earth.

Merlin looked at Arthur and gave him a nod. “Ready?” 

Arthur nodded back. “Ready.” 

Behind them, the knights came to attention, all them there to see their wayward brother off. 

Merlin and Arthur bent down next to the boat and pushed it off the bank and into the water. The water was warmer than Merlin remembered, the promise of summer heating it up. Arthur hissed just before his boots submerged. But then, when he realised all was well, his shoulders slackened and he breathed out in relief.

The boat rocked between them, swaying against the water that lapped against Merlin’s legs. Merlin held out his hand above the boat, and his eyes flashed in gold. Slowly, the boat began to drift away, setting its course towards the isle.

Merlin watched it go in silence, feeling a great deal of his anguish and anxiety float off with it.

It was done. It was over. At last.

He felt Arthur’s fingers wrap around his wrist, and he missed the part when Mordred’s body was carried out of sight. He was too busy staring at Arthur’s profile. 

“That’s it, then?” Arthur asked after some time, his voice rising above the stiff breeze and the lark song drifting through the air. 

Merlin sniffed in a deep breath and looked up, letting the sunshine warm his cheeks. “That’s it. The Sidhe will guide his body through the Gate. They’ll know what it’s for.” 

“And the Old Religion. It will stop coming through? There won’t be any natural disasters we’ll have to worry about down the line?”

Merlin shrugged. “Not caused by an access of magic, no.”

Arthur pursed his lips in thought and looked at Merlin, and then his brows knitted in perplexity. On the banks, the knights, too, were whispering about something, and Merlin realised that Arthur was looking over his shoulder.

Merlin froze, wondering what could have possibly gone wrong. Preparing himself, he looked behind him, and what he saw captured his breath.

A woman stood knee-deep in the water. She wore a dress of blue and pink that billowed around her in the water. Her face was clean of any smudges, and her hair brushed so that it shined.

Merlin turned around fully to face her. 

“Freya?” he breathed, unable to believe his eyes. 

A kind smile spread across her features, and fondness bloomed in his chest. He let out a laugh, his cheeks cracking in a grin. Quickly, he waded towards where she was waiting. 

“Hello, Merlin.”

“How—?” 

“I am one with the Lake of Avalon. My spirit resides here, and the magic that has bled into this world has allowed me to take physical form. It won’t last long, I’m afraid. Now that the Gates are closing, I will lose my corporal self.” 

Merlin’s heart sank gently. Half of him hoped she would remain like this, that she could return with them to Winchester and be a part of the council. 

“How long?”

She gave him a sympathetic look, as though she were apologizing to him. “I do not know. But, while it lasts . . .”

She reached up her hand slowly and placed it on his cheek. She felt warm, alive, and he remembered a time when he was a boy and he’d loved her. He closed his eyes into her touch, letting his memory sweep him back to that time, if only for a moment. 

When he opened his eyes, her hand was back at her side, and he looked over his shoulder to Arthur.

“Come here!” Merlin called, laughter in his voice. Arthur began wading over at once. “I’d like you to meet someone. Arthur, this is Freya. Freya, Arthur.”

“We’ve met,” Arthur said, taking the hand he was offered at leaning over to place a kiss on it. Merlin nearly rolled his eyes at Arthur’s chivalry.

“Ooh, count yourself blessed, Freya. I’ve never gotten one of those,” Merlin teased. Arthur scoffed, and Freya chuckled.

“I am blessed,” she said, “to have this moment.”

“And I’m glad to meet you properly,” Arthur told her. And then his eyes turned back to the isle, where Mordred had disappeared. “While we have this moment, I must know something.” 

“Say what is on your mind, King Arthur, and I will do my best to answer.”

He shuffled a little, like he wasn’t certain he even wanted an answer. 

“If my life is bound to Mordred’s, and he is held in Avalon forever,” he began, “will I—Will I live forever, too?”

Merlin hadn’t thought of that, and suddenly the peace he felt was broken. He would not wish eternal life on Arthur. However, Arthur kept glancing at him out of the corner of his eyes, his expression half-anxious and half-hopeful. 

Arthur did not want to live forever, but he would for Merlin.

Merlin wanted to laugh. Would they be caught in this cycle forever? Each of them so keen to die for one another? And both so ready to live for each other?

Freya gave Arthur a strange look, and then said slowly, “Mordred now exists in Avalon’s realm. Fate’s tie is broken.”

“Oh.” Arthur blinked, and cleared his throat. Merlin didn’t know if he was disappointed or relieved. But Merlin was only relieved. “So . . . I’m free of him?” 

“You are.”

“Well, that’s . . .” He looked at Merlin heavily. “Good.”

Merlin pushed a smile and nodded. “Yeah.” He meant it, even if Arthur may not have.

“Oh!” he said, not wanting to forget in all the excitement. He took out the coin that bound Morgana’s soul from his backpack and handed it to Freya. “I know I can entrust this to you.”

Freya’s face lit up at the prospect of the company, but Merlin thought it would be a long time until Morgana called anyone a friend. “Yes. I will take care of her. I assure you. She will be safe here." 

Both Morgana and Mordred, together, would rest on Avalon’s shores forever.

Arthur nodded solemnly. “Thank you.” 

“My time is coming to an end here,” Freya then told them, regaining their attention. Merlin was sad to see her go. “But, do not fear, Merlin; even though this body cannot last, I will remain with you, as I always have, until the end.” 

He nodded, thankful for her. He only wished they had more time.

“I can come back here,” he offered. “Avalon is a part of Arthur’s realm now. I can come visit you.”

She shook her head sorrowfully. “Your place is in Winchester, at Arthur’s side.”

Merlin and Arthur exchanged a lingering look, both of them knowing it to be true.

“And, even if I could keep this form, you cannot return here, Merlin. This place is not for mortal men.” Her eyes were on Arthur as she said it, giving him another curious look, and then her gaze shifted to Merlin as she finished, “like you.” 

Merlin blinked, her words getting lodged somewhere in his mind, unable to process. Arthur, for once, was a little quicker. 

“What are you saying?”

“Merlin drank from the Cup to trade his life for yours, but his life is not like others. He did not give away his present, but his future,” she explained. “She gave away his immortality.”

Merlin suddenly felt very far away—numb and cold, as if in the grave.

“I . . .” He didn’t know what to say or how to feel. The revelation was too big. “I’m going to die?”

Freya nodded. “One day, yes. But first, you will live. You will grow old as any man, and die as any man.”

“No,” Arthur said with determination, shaking his head rapidly. He held up his hand as if bargaining with Freya. “There must be something we can do. Some way—.” 

But Merlin didn’t want to find a way. He reached out and lowered Arthur’s arm. 

“No, Arthur,” he said, the fact of his own mortality dawning on him. Arthur’s arm was warm and solid to the touch. Alive. Real. Real in a way Merlin never had been—and now he could be. They could be real together. Merlin would never have to lose him again.

He found himself smiling. “It’s all right.”

“All right?” Arthur repeated, his yell echoing off the water.

Merlin looked at him and nodded, his grin full on his face now. “Yes.” 

He felt like he were in a dream. 

Arthur’s face softened. “You’re sure?” 

Merlin nodded. He didn’t want to waste time arguing about it. _Time_. There was so little of it now. And there was so much to do. He wanted to see Arthur crowned. He wanted to begin their kingdom. He wanted to live in the peace they’d fought for. He wanted to grow old and have children and grandchildren. He wanted to race time, fear it, watch the clock, live inside of it, wish for it to slow, waste it on lazy days.

Time. He’d had centuries of it, and never realised how he’d taken it for granted. He thought he’d felt its passing before, but that was nothing compared to this. 

He could see a future stretched out before him, and he saw an ending to it. Until that day, he wanted to spend all his remaining time with Arthur.

“I’m sure.”

He looked back at Freya, but she was gone. He accepted it, relieved at least that Avalon was closed. It could do no harm anymore.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, Merlin saw a figure standing waist deep in the water. She was a long way off, and he could only just make out the dark blue gown with golden embroideries. A necklace of the same gold shimmered in the light. Long, dark and wavy hair cascaded down porcelain skin. She was only there for a flash, her visage translucent as the last dregs of magic were pulled back to Avalon. 

But she’d looked as she had the first time he ever saw her, and that is how she would remain. 

He felt Arthur’s hand slip around his wrist again, and turned his eyes back to him.

“I think it’s about time we went home,” Merlin told him.

 

///

 

Under the Charter of the United Kingdoms of Albion, the monarch’s cabinet included one minister from each of the provinces of England, representatives appointed by the laws of the governments of Wales and Scotland, and one member to serve as the representative of the City of Winchester and Albion’s magical civilians—a position that fell to Aurora. Each of these members served under the monarch accord to the term limits of their province, and his or her successor was to be elected by the people of their province. The powers afforded to the provinces were local governance, judicial laws, and enforcement.

In one of the very last drafts of the Charter, Arthur suggested another position be added to the cabinet. He had his advisors in Merlin, Gaius, and Gwen, who all agreed that he should have an advisor chosen by all the people of Albion. The elected minister would serve a term of five years, without limit to the number of terms. He or she alone held the power to veto any federal law the monarch and the cabinet passed. 

The election for Prime Minister would take place early the next year. In the interim, Arthur nominated Simmons to serve in the position. Her eyes had lit up at Arthur at the time. The rest of the cabinet’s vote put her into the temporarily role. 

With all the laws of government and the distributions of power laid out on the document, the leaders came together to sign the Charter. Merlin stood to the side, watching as, one by one, the ministers approached the Round Table and scribbled their names, forever solidifying the unity between their provinces.

_Forever_.

Merlin knew nothing was forever; but, as he watched Arthur sign the Charter, it was so easy to believe in forever. Arthur’s neck dipped the same way Merlin had seen it do countless times when he leafed through parchment at his desk; his head titled in the same concentration, his fingers gripped the pen in gentle curves, and his wrist flicked in such familiar strokes. Merlin could spot Arthur penning his signature from across the room on any given day.

It was so ordinary. Never had it made such bliss bloom in his chest. 

At his side, Gwen gave him a nudge with her shoulder. Knocked out of the moment, he looked down at her beaming grin.

“You’re supposed to look stern at these sorts of things,” she whispered teasingly.

Merlin lifted his chin and looked back at Arthur and the members of his cabinet. He wasn’t certain what expression he’d been wearing, but Arthur looked stern enough for everyone. He was pleased, really—Merlin could tell—but he was too much of statesman to let it show. 

Merlin let out a few unsure sounds. He didn’t see a reason not to be happy. He’d seen the beginning of many new government systems. Never before had it _felt_ like a beginning. 

Still, it was best to keep up appearances. “Stern? I’m _dreading_ the future. Arthur’s going to be a nightmare to deal with from now on.” He even rolled his eyes. 

Gwen saw right through him. She swayed back and forth into his side and hummed with mirth. “I never understood why everyone must hide their emotions, either. We all worked hard for this day.” 

Merlin had no clue what she was talking about. She had always been excellent at controlling her emotions during State meetings. But he couldn’t reply. She looked very pointedly at Arthur and said, “Go on, Merlin. Be proud of him. I know you are.” 

Merlin didn’t confirm or deny it. At least, not verbally. He was pretty certain the smile he wore as he cast wistful eyes at Arthur told Gwen all she needed to know. 

After the signing, the Charter was taken away for safekeeping, and the members of the cabinet took their places around the table. Simmons seated herself at Arthur’s left hand. The chair to his right was Merlin’s.

When everyone was settled, Arthur began, “It’s time we moved to the next matter at hand.” He gestured, and one of the maids brought forth three items wrapped in cloth. He laid them out before him, and hesitated only slightly before unwrapping them.

Even shrouded and in pieces, Merlin felt the power beckoning out to him. It was such a strong force, desperate to be used, for good or evil. The thing itself was neither: it was merely a goblet. The stem had been separated from the cup, which had been broken into two equal pieces. 

Merlin and Aurora had been up all night trying to break the Cup of Life into pieces. It was protected by powerful magic, and had almost knocked them both unconscious at one point. By the end of it, Merlin was drained and exhausted and his magic was nothing but a weak tingle on his skin, slowly retreating into the recesses of his body for sleep.

However, they managed to separate it into three. It would have to be enough. 

“The Cup of Life holds more power than any one person or any government should wield,” Arthur addressed the Table. “Because of that, it our duty to ensure no one may ever use it again. These three pieces must be taken far from here, scattered throughout the world, and buried where they can’t be found. Three of Winchester’s finest knights are tasked with this duty—Elyan, Percival, and Lancelot.”

He nodded to each of them in turn, and they nodded back in acknowledgement.

“Elyan and Percival, you will take with you a small group of men to aid you on your quests,” Arthur continued, “and, Lancelot—.”

Lancelot looked up, quizzical about being addressed directly. Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin noticed Gwen tense unsurely, too. Merlin, however, knew Lancelot’s fate. He and Arthur had talked about at length.

There was another quest that needed completing—one full of adventure and danger and would take the traveller all around the globe. They both agreed there was only one candidate for such an excruciating and delicate mission; one man who would give it his all and return triumphant. 

More than that, there was no one Merlin trusted more with the task.

“If you choose to undergo such a quest, your task in addition to burying your piece of the Cup,” said Arthur, “is to find a dragon’s egg.”

Lancelot seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. He gaped, oblivious to the soft murmur that erupted around the Table. Merlin didn’t listen to it, either. He felt his chest constrict in anticipation. If there was another egg out there—even just _one_ —dragons could return to Albion. He’d heard rumours over the years, but he never allowed himself to hope. Now, it was difficult to do anything else. 

“ _Sire_ ,” Lancelot gasped, and it sounded very much like _yes_. Merlin read the excitement etched onto Lancelot’s face—the prospect of being tasked with such an important mission for the kingdom, and the chance to play a hand in securing the lineage of such creatures. 

Arthur held up a palm to silence the room.

“So long as Winchester has a dragon, and a dragon lord,” he said, gesturing to Merlin, “we command all magical creatures. Ensuring the survival of dragons is vital to the protection of this land and its people, especially from outside foes that wish to do us harm. I cannot stress how important this quest is to Albion, Lancelot. But, know your journey will be much longer than Elyan’s or Percival’s. You will be travelling far and wide, and I cannot afford to have a number of men gone for such a time. Nor can I risk their safety. You will have to travel alone, and in secret. We can’t have others knowing what you’re looking for.”

Lancelot schooled his face; though, when his eyes briefly met Merlin’s, Merlin saw them flash with glee. “I understand, Sire.”

“You accept?” Arthur confirmed.

At once, the consequences of it seemed to hit Lancelot. He swallowed hard, his face falling as he looked to Gwen. 

Gwen stared back at him, and she looked so torn. Part of her, the part that never hesitated to give her all to the good of the kingdom, told him to go. The other part—not queen or ruler or subject, but the part of her that had lost so much and mourned to lose it again, the part that rested beneath her breastbone—told him never to leave her.

Merlin had been so selfish. How could he ask them to separate? They had only just found each other again! They deserved to be together. They should not have to suffer for something that was Merlin’s duty. 

Merlin was tired of travelling. His muscles ached and his bones were weary and finally— _finally_ —he had a home again. He didn’t want to leave it, but he would if it meant Lancelot and Gwen could be together. If it meant finding more dragons and protecting the kingdom. 

He almost spoke up, but the words died on his lips. He could never leave Arthur’s side. More than his duty as a dragon lord, was his duty to Arthur. He belonged at Arthur’s right hand. He would never leave his side again.

Lancelot and Gwen were so much stronger than he, because Lancelot said, “Yes, Sire. I will not fail you.” 

Gwen looked down at her lap, resigned and accepting. Merlin felt like his insides were made of pins. 

“Good,” said Arthur, his shoulders dropping infinitesimally in relief. The smallest of smiles quirked his lips. “You will all leave in a week’s time.” After the coronation. 

The thought of it put Merlin in better spirits, though his eyes kept wandering back to Gwen. She never looked back at him. 

Arthur leaned back in his chair and moved on. “Which brings us to the rebels still in the former Neo-Druid territory. Sir Leon and King Cenred will lead a campaign to rid the province of the Neos still remaining in the area, so that the people there can live in peace.” 

Simmons added, “Once the turmoil in the region has subsided, the Territory will be divided into two regions. One will belong to King Cenred, and will be annexed by the United Kingdoms. The other will form a new governance. His Majesty’s Cabinet must decide what to do with the territory—to absorb it into an existing region, or to build a separate province. The vote will be held in six months’ time.”

“We believe it will take at most that long to rid the Territory of the majority of the rebels,” said Arthur. “However, the military training in Winchester must move forward. Sir Leon and I have spoken of this in length, and we have both agreed that it would be counterproductive for the leadership of the army to change hands upon his return to the city. Because of the length of time he and his troops will be away, he understands he must give up his position as Head Knight indefinitely.”

Arthur had tried hard to push to sadness from his tone, but the dregs of it still lingered in the announcement. Merlin wondered how Leon ever talked Arthur into letting him lead the campaign. Though, it was probably for the best. Six months wasn’t very long, and the vote would almost definitely elect to create a new province. That meant there would be one more minister in the cabinet.

Who could be elected to such a position of leadership in a region that had been ravaged by the Neos? Who, but the man who lead the efforts to free them? 

By the way Simmons lifted her chin, Merlin knew she’d played a hand in this strategy. It was shame she was only interim PM. She and Arthur made quite the team.

Though, Merlin wasn’t sure who Arthur had in mind to replace Leon as Head Knight.

“Gwaine,” Arthur said, making both Gwaine and Merlin’s heads snap up.

Gwaine looked around as though he hadn’t been paying attention before and was suddenly very lost. He had been listening—to every word, in fact—but he still looked like an animal caught in the headlights. “I was waiting for you to get to me. Everyone else got a quest,” he teased. “I was feeling left out.”

“I don’t have a quest for you, Gwaine. What I have is a job,” Arthur told him. Merlin’s gaze flew between the two men seated directly across from each other. His heart hammered against his chest as he remembered a very old prophecy. 

“In Leon’s stead, you will be appointed Head Knight,” Arthur offered. “You will lead the army.” 

_Courage, magic, and strength_. That had been the prophecy. The king, the sorcerer, and the knight, destined to rule Albion.

Gwaine looked smug and leaned back in his chair. “Head Knight Sir Gwaine,” he said, seeming to get a feel for it on his tongue. He winked at Merlin in a way that took Merlin’s breath away. “Who can say no to that?”

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a grin. He shook his head down at the Table to collect himself. When he did, he said with finality, “It’s decided, then. Does anyone else have any matter of government they wish to bring forward?”

Silence fell and, when the proper amount of time had passed, Arthur said, “Session dismissed.”

 

///

 

Gwen and Lancelot remained silent, their bodies angled towards each other on the sofa of Gwen’s home, their knees brushing every time one of them shifted slightly. The streets outside were growing dark, and Gwen could hear the dinging bells of bicycles, the plodding of horses, and the occasional whoosh of a vehicle. Chatter, shouts, and laughter filtered in through the opened windows.

Lancelot drew in a breath. “Perhaps,” he began, and it almost started Gwen, even though his voice was soft. She hadn’t expected him to speak; she wasn’t certain she’d expected anything. “Perhaps I can rescind my agreement to this quest. I’m sure Arthur would understand.” 

There was a flicker of hope in Gwen’s chest, but it made her gut churn. She looked at him with gentle eyes, seeing how torn he was. He wished to go, but he also wished to stay. She wanted to keep him with her, but she didn’t want to hold him back.

The thought of going with him had crossed her mind. After all, she often wished she’d seen more of the world outside of British Isles in her first life. But she knew it wasn’t possible to be away from the kingdom for so long. She was bound there—by duty and love for the people. Arthur needed her help. She would not have it any other way. 

“You do not want that,” she said, even though it was hard. 

Lancelot took her hands in his, warm and calloused, but ever-gentle. “I want _you_ , Gwen.”

Something inside her fluttered happily at that, making the corners of her lips turn upwards. “I know,” she told him. “You have me, Lancelot. You take my heart when you go, and I will be here when you return. You won’t be gone forever.”

She had thought the same thing the last time he’d left, the very last time she saw him alive in Camelot. But this was not the past. They would have their future.

“I wish there was a way I could promise you that,” he said, “so that we will both have something to hold on to until we’re together again.”

His words struck something in her. There may have been way they could keep each other close, even with the distance separating them.

“Maybe there is,” she said, considering. It didn’t take much consideration at all. She looked down at their conjoined hands, at their bare fingers laced together. They had been given a second chance. If he agreed, she would not waste it.

He leaned in, catching her eyes again. “How?” 

She tightened her hands around his. If he let her, she would hold it forever.

 

///

 

The main room in Guildhall had been adorned with ribbons, tinsels, and flowers, all different shades of white and cream and blue. Chairs had been lined up in rows with a white carpet, littered with petals, running in the isle between them. All of the chairs were filled now, the congregations chattering happily as they awaited the proceedings.

Merlin stood at the front of the room with Lancelot, both of them in tuxedos, and Merlin wondered how ridiculous he must have looked—especially next to Lancelot. He supposed he would have to wear a lot of suits in the future, which was not something he was looking forward to as consort, but supposed it was worth it to see Arthur dressed to the nines, too.

Behind them, one of the Supreme Court judges from Chancellor Brown’s trial waited to officiate an event far happier than disposing a tyrant—although, you wouldn’t know it by looking at Lancelot, who fidgeted nervously, as he’d been doing for the past twenty-four hours.

“It’s warm in here, isn’t it?” he worried, turning to Merlin. He pulled at his collar, nearly messing up his bowtie. “How do I look? I feel like I’m sweating. Am I?” 

Merlin bit back a chuckle, but the evidence of it was clear in the way his lips tried very hard not to twist into a smile. He reached up and straightened out Lancelot’s bowtie. 

“Lancelot,” he warned, “ _relax_. Breathe.”

Lancelot took in a deep, laboured breath and let it out unnaturally, but Merlin supposed it would have to do. 

“Yeah, like that. Remember, you’re making the right decision.”

“I know _I_ am,” he assured Merlin. “I just hope Gwen feels the same.”

“She wouldn’t be marrying you if she didn’t.”

“Yes, but I want to make sure she’s _certain_ about this—.”

“Lancelot,” Merlin interrupted again, fixing him with a stern look. “She is. Trust me. You’re lucky to have each other. I have never seen two people so made for each other as you and Gwen.”

He seemed to settle at this, and even smiled a little. “Well, there’s you and Arthur. You _were_ made for each other, or so says destiny.”

Merlin let his grin go freely that time, and did not deny it. “Yeah, but you and Gwen found each other all on your own. That counts for something.” 

“No,” Lancelot told him, looking very grateful all of a sudden, “we found each other through you. I never said thank you for that, Merlin.” 

There was no need for gratitude. After all, it had been a long road for Lancelot and Gwen, and much of it was full of bumps and potholes and sharp turns. He was glad that, at last, they had found their way to their destination. 

Before Merlin could answer, there was a swell of bridal music from the organ, and the congregation hushed. The judge took his place to Lancelot’s side, and Lancelot at once stood to attention as if he were going into battle. Merlin nudged him wish his shoulder, wished him luck that he wouldn’t need, and stood off to the side. 

At the back of the hall, Gwen came into view and slowly began walking down the isle towards her soon-to-be husband. Elyan was on her arm, looking as proud as could be.

Everyone gasped and swooned as they saw her, looking radiant in a pristine white dress, silk and lace, with a trail that swept behind her. Merlin grinned from ear to ear at the sight of her, but it was nothing compared to the smile she wore.

Lancelot’s nerves fell away as soon as he saw her. He appeared love struck and overwhelmed, as if swept up in the throes of a dream. As everyone in the room looked at Gwen, her eyes were on Lancelot alone. 

When she reached the end of the hall, Elyan kissed his sister on the forehead and left her, taking his seat at the end of the front row. Gwen and Lancelot clasped hands, and after they settled before each other, they looked to the judge. The organ burst with the last notes, and all fell silent. 

And then the judge began, “Ladies and gentlemen, we gather today to celebrate the marriage of two of Britain’s finest citizens . . .” 

As he continued, Merlin took his eyes off Gwen and Lancelot, and found Arthur in the congregation. He was seated in the first row, along with Elyan and the committee. The rest of the knights were in the row behind him.

Merlin felt a wave of sadness, and a twinge of age-old bitterness, wash over him as he realised he didn’t want to know what was going on in Arthur’s mind upon seeing Gwen marrying another man. Not even any other man: Lancelot. There was a history between the three of them, and Merlin wondered if Arthur was recalling it now.

But then Merlin, a glutton for his own self-punishment, lingered on Arthur longer, and got a better look. There was no pain or tension written on Arthur’s face. He looked content—happy, even. Like he knew this day was a long time coming, and he would never wish to prevent it.

The tightness in Merlin’s chest lifted, and he knew he was silly for being so jealous. Whatever history they had was in the past, and it was time to look to the future. 

Arthur must have felt Merlin’s gaze, because his eyes flickered towards him. At first, Merlin looked away, pretending he hadn’t been staring; but then he thought better of it and locked onto Arthur’s gaze again. Arthur gave him a soft smile, and Merlin returned it. 

He remembered their own wedding day, which was nowhere near as elaborate as this. It was probably the least romantic experience of Merlin’s life, in fact. A quick exchange of _I do_ in front of a judge, Wallace clapping annoyingly and breaking the moment (and Merlin promptly wishing he hadn’t asked Wallace to be their witness), and signing some papers. They didn’t even get rings until the next day. It was drab and rapid and not at all proper, but when had _anything_ they’d ever done been _proper_? 

Merlin wouldn’t have exchanged that day for any other in his whole life.

When the ceremony ended, the chairs were rearranged and tables brought out. A banquet was held in Lancelot and Gwen’s honour, complete with a band and a place to dance between the tables.

From the high table, Arthur watched with genuine happiness as the new couple danced their first as husband and wife, huddled together in a close embrace, to _you have made my life complete and I love you so_.

As one should at a wedding, Merlin had far too much to drink, and convinced Arthur to join him on the dance floor. For the rest of the night, Arthur was in his arms, sighing into Merlin’s hair during the slow melodies and laughing into his collar at every fast-paced misstep; through _though I’ll never lose affection for people and things that went before, I know I’ll often stop and think about them, but in my life I love you more_ ; through _I’m gonna love you until the heavens stop the rain, I’m gonna love you until the stars fall from the sky for you and I_. 

When the night way over, they bid the newlyweds goodnight and went home to the Summer Palace, where Merlin didn’t let Arthur leave their bedroom until noon the next day.


	15. Chapter 15

Arthur could hear the trumpets sounding from the city. Their music carried on the breeze, and he wasn’t sure if it would ever die away with distance. Perhaps the entire world heard the sounds of the fanfare ushering in Britain’s new era. Welcoming their king.

He knew how ecstatic the people of Winchester were. That day especially, the entire nation had coronation fever. The news bulletins were broadcasting the event across the country. Everyone would be watching. Arthur let that fact sink in. Everyone in Albion would see him sworn in as their leader. He’d never had that before, that reach. He wondered how many would shake their heads in despair when the crown was placed on his head, and how many would grin in excitement. Whether he was hated or loved, he hoped he would do right by his people. He hoped he could help them rebuild their lives. 

The strangest sensation overcame him, so different from the heaviness that arrested him when he was crowned king of Camelot. Yes, that weight was still present; that daunting sense of fear that he wasn’t good enough to be king, that he’d fail. But it was small in comparison to the beat of his heart telling him, yes, he was good enough. He’d made so many mistakes in Camelot. He’d started his reign in a time of mourning, and convinced that he was alone. He knew now, he wasn’t. He had the support of his committee, the wisdom of his friends, the dedication of his soldiers, and hopefully the love of his people. With that, he could do anything.

With that, they could build a future Camelot was meant to have.

Peace, at last. Arthur thought he’d never see it. He thought he’d never feel it.

He was ready for the old world to end.

He was ready to begin.

He stood in his bedroom, looking down at the ceremonial garments laid out on the bed. A crimson guard’s uniform and its sashes and gold metals. Next to it rested a folded cloak, long and heavy enough to be called a robe. It was of a deep, familiar red. The golden sigil of a dragon was stitched onto the shoulder. It resembled the cloak Arthur had worn in Camelot, the uniform of his knights. It had been made for the coronation. He laid his hand flat on top of it, and remembered the city it represented.

Winchester. Camelot. He carried both cities in his heart until they mixed, coexisting inside of him in perfect unity. He could no longer separate the past from the present. Both names were his future. Both were his world, so much bigger than him. So much more. He’d wanted nothing more than to make the city proud of him, to be its king.

And it had chosen him for job twice.

“Shall we begin, sire?” Ainsworth asked, bringing Arthur back to himself.

Arthur looked over his shoulder at the man and nodded. The early morning sun was rising higher in the sky with every minute. It was time.

Ainsworth stepped forward and meticulously picked up the uniform’s trousers as to not crease them. Arthur stepped into them as Ainsworth moved to pick up the jacket. 

And that’s when Arthur felt a very familiar presence surround him. He was being watched, but it raised no panic in his heart. The presence was a lot of things, the abundance of brightness of the world with darkness nestles just beneath the skin: memory, hope, anger and despair, kindness, and a certain rage born of longing and loneliness. But that day, it was nothing but warm and loving. It was happiness. 

Arthur looked at the man standing quietly in the door, leaning against the frame with his hands folded behind his back. “Merlin.” He wasn’t sure if he’d really said the name aloud. It was soft spoken, perhaps just a whisper, like the trumpets on the wind. 

He was already dressed, wearing a polished black three-piece tuxedo. A sash of the same red as Arthur’s cloak hung across his shoulder. He was clean-shaven again with his hair cut and tamed of its usual wild waves. There was no evidence of the last few months on him, not a bruise or a slumped shoulder, not a tired droop to his eyes. In fact, there was no evidence of the past fifteen centuries about him. All that time had settled in on him so well. He suddenly wore the years better than he did that tuxedo.

Merlin held his gaze for a long while before it flickered just over Arthur’s shoulder. “Ainsworth, why don’t you let me?” he said, standing up from the doorframe and pacing into the room. 

“Certainly, your majesty,” Ainsworth said. He put the jacket back down carefully. “I shall make sure the car is prepared to take the king to the cathedral.” He bowed his head to Arthur, and then to Merlin. For once, Merlin didn’t protest, and silently let Ainsworth leave the room. 

They remained quiet even after Ainsworth’s footsteps faded. Without a word, Merlin crossed the room and picked up the jacket. His touch was gentle as he helped Arthur dress, such a stark contrast from the way he used to manhandle everything in his days as servant. Every movement was precise, perfect. His brow was knitted in concentration as he buttoned the jacket and folded the collar, pinned the metals and placed the sash. He moved slowly, like he never wanted it to end.

Throughout it all, Arthur couldn’t bring himself to blink. As he watched Merlin work, any lingering nervousness he may have had completely fell away. Somehow, Merlin helping him get ready for the ceremony afforded Arthur an extra boost of confidence.

Merlin had always had that affect on him. The world had always been easier to face with Merlin at his side. Through raging battles, quests that took them far from home, disease and famine, and all manner of hell, Merlin made Arthur braver. Merlin made Arthur believe that he had courage.

It felt odd for this man—this god who had lived forever and could control the movement of the stars themselves—to take up that old, simple roll of helping Arthur dress, something he’d done countless times. But it felt right, too, like a chapter was being closed so another could begin. It steadied Arthur in a way he hadn’t realised he’d needed.

But that was Merlin. He’d crept up on Arthur somehow, and before Arthur even noticed it, he couldn’t live without him.

After Merlin draped the cloak over Arthur’s shoulders, he stepped back and admired his work up and down.

Arthur didn’t look in the mirror. He didn’t need to. 

“Well, Merlin,” he asked, “am I ready?” 

 _Am I finished?_ he wanted to ask, but he knew the answer already. No. Merlin would never be finished with him. When they’d first met, Arthur was a blank slate, as empty and brimming with potential as one of Merlin’s journals when it was fresh. Merlin had spent years filling the pages, but he wasn’t done yet. Arthur didn’t mind. He trusted Merlin, and would have no one else write his story. Everyone else who’d tried had only gotten it wrong, anyway. 

“Almost,” Merlin said, his eyes lighting up as though in realisation. “I nearly forgot something!” He bounced across the room and picked up Arthur’s sword from its place on the dresser. He came back, holding it up on both palms.

A smirk licked Arthur’s lips. Merlin had forgotten Arthur’s sword the first time he’d ever dressed him. He was sure if Merlin had done that on purpose, but it was a nice memory. 

Arthur took the sword from him and tied it at his side. He’d have to take it off when he got to the cathedral. It was part of the ceremony. From that day on, it would be given to every king and queen that preceded him.

“There,” said Merlin with barely contained pride. “Now you’re ready.”

Arthur could have stared at the sparkle in Merlin’s eyes all day, but there was work to be done.

“Good. I’ll see you there, then.”

Merlin bowed low, and Arthur didn’t quite see his smile, but he knew it was there. Every line of Merlin’s posture spoke of it. Arthur knew how much the bow meant to Merlin, so he allowed it one last time. But that would be all. When Merlin straightened out again, Arthur told him, “Merlin, you don’t have to bow to me. Not you. Not ever. You know that, don’t you?” 

Merlin paused, like he had to think about it. Then, he nodded shallowly. “I know,” he said, and Arthur hoped he was being genuine. 

“I mean it. Promise you never will again.” 

Merlin’s expression turned humoured. “Well, I’ll have to do it at the ceremony, so—.”

“Yes, yes, but that doesn’t count.” God, _everyone_ would have to bow to Arthur then. “I mean . . . After. Promise me.”

For a moment, Arthur thought Merlin would say something about destiny. Arthur never wanted to hear that word again. Together, they had broken its cycle. Destiny had no place between them anymore. Their future was their own. 

“I promise,” Merlin said instead. Arthur would hold him to it. 

Merlin turned and started out of the room, throwing over his shoulder, “Don’t be late to your own crowning.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes and turned away in a chuckle. As he did, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Vainly, he allowed himself to admire his reflection. Merlin had done a good job in making everything look right, but he’d had a good canvas to work with. Arthur certainly did look the part, and it helped him feel like he could actually pull it off. 

He could be a king again.

“Merlin,” he called softly, and by some miracle Merlin heard it and looked back around. Arthur met his eyes, so Merlin would really understand his meaning when he said, “Thank you.”

Merlin blinked as the words flowed through him. He didn’t answer. He hadn’t answered the first time, either. He’d only blinked.

But Arthur could tell he was pleased. He nodded once, and left.

 

///

 

The choir was singing a soft harmony from the balcony, and it echoed off the steepled ceiling, wrapped itself around the steel of the chandelier poles, and broke upon the walls of the cathedral. The very first of summer’s suns streamed through the stained glass windows and painted the floors in their colours. Everywhere Merlin looked in the nave, he saw a bouquet of red or white roses.

The people had already taken their seats in the pews. Government officials from each of the provinces had been invited. Rosewood and all of the Scottish commanders were in attendance, in addition to the Irish President and his cabinet. The Druid chiefs and their advisors were in present. Arthur’s top generals sat a few rows behind him, one back from the knights, every one of them donning cloaks of red and gold. Merlin was in the front pew, seated next to Gwen, Gaius, and the committee members.

The streets outside were packed, too, lined with civilians waving miniature Union flags and holding banners.

A small, hushed swell of whispered chatter rattled through the cathedral as everyone waited for the ceremony to begin.

Merlin looked to the alter, where half a dozen chairs lined the wall for the Supreme Court judges. Their leader would direct the ceremony. The largest chair was for the archbishop of Winchester, with another half dozen seats for his priests. There would be a quick mass before the coronation, simply because some traditions always found their way to live on. There was one last chair of honour for a Druid elder, who would bless Arthur in the Old Religion as soon as the mass ended. 

“Pardon me, your highness?” someone said under their breath. Merlin looked over to find Olivia had appeared at his side. She was crouched down in the aisle, knees bent beneath her gold dress that complimented her dark skin, a thick binder balanced on her thighs as she teetered on her heels. There was a headset with a microphone on her ear. “The King has almost arrived. We’re about to begin.”

Merlin’s stomach did a somersault in anticipation and worry. He told himself nothing would go wrong. All threats had been eliminated. Morgana and Mordred were gone. Arthur would be crowned without incident. But his magic was still on high alert.

His heart rate, too, picked up. Because the day had finally come. It hardly felt real, and yet, it was the only tangible thing he could latch on to. 

He nodded to Olivia and thanked her, and she gave him a smile before standing up and going to her seat. Merlin closed his eyes and let his magic drift through the cathedral, out the double doors, and down the street, to where Arthur’s carriage was a block away. He could feel Arthur’s nerves, his excitement—his joy as he waved to the crowd and his inward promise to do right by them. He felt the weight of the responsibility Arthur carried on his shoulders like Atlas. It calmed him. It calmed Arthur, too; Merlin felt him settle, felt him bask briefly in the feel of Merlin’s touch on his skin.

He pulled his magic back and opened his eyes. It wasn’t long now.

Soon, the organ swelled, and the choir changed their tune. The congregation shushed. The masses outside roared and cheered.

The alter servers came in first, holding religious texts and candles as they walked down the aisle. The archbishop, in full regalia, was flanked by his priests. Then followed Druid elder, and next the judges. Arthur came in last, his cloak trailing behind him on the carpeted aisle. Merlin tried hard to bite down a beaming smile, but he thought he was failing. His chest ballooned with thick pride. He felt Gwen’s hand squeeze his at his side, but he couldn’t turn away from Arthur to see her own smile. 

When everyone got to the alter, Arthur taking his seat in the centre, the music stopped and the mass began. Merlin felt as if he were holding his breath throughout the entire thing. He felt twitchy, wanting it to be done so the coronation could begin, wanting the coronation to be over so Arthur could officially be king. He told himself to stop; to enjoy the moment as it was happening. To, for once, not look to the future. He wanted to live in the present for this.

He kept his sights on Arthur, who did his best to sit to attention. His shoulders were straight and his chin was held upright. At one point, his nose twitched like he was holding back a sneeze, and Merlin forced a laugh down at that. They both had to be on their best behaviour.

When the blessings were finished, the head judge took his place next to Arthur’s seat. He called, “I here present unto you Arthur Pendragon, your undoubted King. Wherefore all you who are come this day to do your homage and service, are you willing to do the same?”

“I am,” the congregation said, their voices overlapping, just a step out sync with one another. 

Then, he looked to Arthur to administer the oath. “Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the People of the United Kingdom of Albion, and of your Possessions and other Territories to any of them belonging or pertaining, according to their respective laws and customs?”

“I solemnly swear to do so,” Arthur said, his tone determined and strong, his voice loud for all to hear. Merlin still felt his own breath trapped in his chest. 

“Will you to your power cause Law and Justice, in Mercy, to be executed in all your judgments?”

“I will.” 

The alter servers stood around the head judge, each of them carefully holding the crown jewels on cushions between their hands. In turn, the judge took them from the servers and presented them to Arthur. Excalibur was the last of them.

Then, the judge took Arthur’s crown and raised it high above his head.

Merlin steadied himself. He thought the anticipation might suffocate him, but he didn’t care. He didn’t dare breathe.

As the crown was placed on Arthur’s head, the judge declared, “By the sacred laws vested in me, I crown you Arthur, King of the United Kingdom of Albion.”

Merlin couldn’t hold it in any longer. His breath forced itself out of him, and he instantly felt lighter for it.

In the distance, he heard a canon fire off of the Great Hall, and another at Guildhall. There would be others, in each of the provinces. From her place atop the watchtower, he heard Dagnija roar.  The choir started up again with _God Save the King_. 

Once the fanfare died away, the members of committee were called forth, each of them to swear their fealty to Arthur. Then, Arthur knighted the generals that fought against Morgana’s army, as Knights of Winchester. There were some who received a higher order, as Knights of the Round Table. They each knelt before Arthur—Head Knight Sir Gwaine, Sir Leon, Sir Lancelot, Sir Elyan, Sir Percival, and Sir David Wallace.

Merlin felt as much happiness for his friends as he did the first time Arthur had knighted them in Taliesin’s court.

And then Merlin was called forth to be crowned consort. He was careful in ascending the alter, painfully aware of all eyes on him in that moment, and of all the people glued to their television sets across the nation. With every step, he prayed he wouldn’t trip and fall and make a fool of himself. Somehow, he managed to get there in once piece, and knelt before Arthur. His skin buzzed with exhilaration, and his magic beneath it hummed. He could feel Arthur’s heartbeat next to his own. 

The head judge stood next to Arthur with Merlin’s crown held out for him to take. First, he told Merlin to repeat an oath after him. “I, Merlin Ambrosius, consort of the United Kingdom of Albion, do solemnly swear fealty to King and Country—.” 

Merlin repeated the words, and all that followed. 

“To uphold the laws of the land to the best of my ability, to serve the citizens and King, to aid the King in upholding his sacred vows and duties, and to remain loyal to the crown.” Merlin couldn’t held up to look up at Arthur for the last words, to feel the weight of them as they rolled off his tongue, to promise them as he always had: “For all the days of the life.”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth pulled upwards as he gazed back, but Merlin was certain he was the only one who saw.

“King Arthur,” the judge asked, “do you accept this oath?” 

“I do.”

Arthur then lifted the crown over Merlin’s head.

It was lighter and warmer than Merlin expected. But it was much smaller than Arthur’s, and it had been on cushion; and he wasn’t necessarily complaining. 

He stood up and took his place at Arthur’s side, and the music began once more to boom through the cathedral. 

Merlin was supposed to be looking forward. He knew he was. He couldn’t. His eyes were fixed on Arthur’s profile as relief and something too big to name swept over him. He thought of all the long years that had brought him to that moment—every wasted second, every battle, every lesson, every weary mile, every tear shed. Every single sacrifice he’d ever made. Arthur had been worth them all. 

And suddenly, Merlin could name the emotion washing through him. It was peace. He felt present in the moment, at last, because that day was something other than Arthur’s coronation.

It was the day Merlin stopped waiting.

 

///

 

A banquet was held in the Great Hall after the coronation ceremony, the Round Table and chairs carefully taken away for safekeeping and to make room for the long tables that now filled the space. Arthur sat at the table in the front of the room overlooking the mass of people before him. Excited chatter and laughter lifted up to the stone ceiling, and the clattering of dishes and glasses rung out as the serving staff weaved to and fro. A band played in the far corner of the room. 

He closed his eyes, picturing a time so long ago, a celebration just like this one. He wondered if it was time to leave those days in the past. But, no. They still influenced everything he did. Perhaps they always would.

When he opened his eyes again, Merlin was sitting down next to him, a bright, crooked smile split from ear to ear. He looked a little flushed from heat and conversation, and a little tired and rumpled, but more blissful than Arthur had seen him in a long time. Possibly centuries.

“Finally. I thought you’d abandoned me up here all alone,” Arthur told him, having to raise his voice to be heard over the noise level.

Merlin’s lips twisted in an incredulous pout. “You could go join the conversation yourself, you know?”

Arthur looked back at the people before him. “I’m the king, Merlin. It’s their job to come to me.”

Merlin only scoffed, but his mood didn’t sour, and for that Arthur was grateful. He searched Merlin’s face, drinking in the softened features and the ease of his posture. “Are you happy, Merlin?” 

Merlin looked at him out of the corner of his eyes, and gave an exaggerated, noncommittal shrug. But he couldn’t keep up the act for long, not when he turned back to the crowd. His eyes lit upon everything in turn. “I always knew I’d see this day,” he said, almost to himself, low enough that Arthur had to lean in to hear him. “But this—it’s better than I imagined.” He turned back to Arthur, and took his hand in his own on the clothed table. “Being here, with you.”

Arthur nearly blushed at the words, and at the way Merlin was looking at him, like he was a dream come true. “We’ll see how you feel in a few years’ time,” he joked, trying to recover from the heaviness of the moment. “You’re stuck with me now, Merlin, for the rest of your life. That is, until I die of old age and you follow years later.” 

Merlin gasped dramatically and released Arthur’s hand. “Hey! I get to die first! I lived fifteen hundred years with you, remember? It’s your turn. It’s only fair.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” Arthur said with a haughty roll of his eyes; and then, weightily, “I wouldn’t last a day without you.”

Merlin softened at that, the corners of his lips pulling ever so softly upwards. 

He couldn’t say anything before Ainsworth appeared over Arthur’s shoulder and refilled his wine glass. It took Arthur by surprise, as the previous person to do that had been a member of the catering staff. “Ainsworth? What are you doing? Pouring wine isn’t your job.”

“I know, sir,” he said, standing upright and holding the bottle in one hand, his other going to rest behind his back. “But I wished to do so tonight, to express congratulations—,” he bowed his head, “your majesty.”

Arthur gaped for a second, thrown. Ainsworth _wanted_ to wait on him? He’d certainly never gotten that level of proficiency in a manservant before, but perhaps he should have expected it by now. Ainsworth was an exceptional butler. Everything was always in its proper place, the Summer Palace was always tidy, and the house staff always knew their duties. It made Arthur feel a bit guilty. The man had been living under his roof for a little under a year, and there was still so much Arthur didn’t know about him.

Hell, he didn’t even know his first name. 

It was time to remedy that.

“Ainsworth, you really are the best at your job,” he said. “Much better than my last servant.” He almost heard Merlin rolling his eyes next to him. “I want you to know that your efforts haven’t gone unnoticed, and I thank you for that.” 

“You’re welcome, sir.” 

“This may make me sound like an ass, but I realise I’ve never learned your first name.”

If Ainsworth was offended, he didn’t show it. His expression remained as impassive as ever. “Ainsworth is fine, sir. I prefer it. Only Mrs. Ainsworth calls me by my given name.”

Arthur glanced at Merlin for a second, sharing a speculative look. He turned back and said, “Oh, come on. Humour me. Just this once.”

Ainsworth sighed slightly, and it might have been the only emotion Arthur ever saw from him. He said, before retreating back to his place a few feet behind Arthur’s chair, “It’s George, your majesty.”

Arthur stared into thin air, and he wondered if this is what it felt like to go into shock. 

George.

His name was George. It really shouldn’t have surprised him. 

Next to him, he heard Merlin snort in a failed attempt to hold back his laughter. Arthur spun around quickly to point a finger in his face. “Don’t you dare—!” 

“I didn’t say anything.”

He held his hands up in mock surrender, but he was still laughing, and it was infectious. Despite himself, Arthur huffed out a chuckle and shook his head.

And then, a line of people walked up to the table. Before Arthur stood his knights, Gwen, and Gaius, wine glasses held in all of their hands. Arthur’s laughter faded, but his smile remained as he looked at each of them, still donned in the colours of their kingdom.

“Gentlemen, Guinevere. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

It was Lancelot who spoke first. “We wished to congratulate you in person, Arthur. You and Merlin.” 

“Yes,” Elyan agreed. “We know how long he’s waited for this day.” 

“Even though he doesn’t show it,” Percival added.

“Yeah, except maybe in his crotchety old man attitude,” said Wallace. 

Arthur barked out an unexpected laugh, his brows shooting up, as Merlin gave a sound of protest. 

“That’s the king consort you’re talking about,” Gwaine told Wallace. “I think that’s officially treason, eh?” 

“Perhaps the king will let it slide this once,” Gaius said, his face severe, “considering it’s true.” 

“Gaius!” Merlin called, but it was drowned out by the rest of the group’s laughter. “That’s it! You’re all banished!” 

“Looks like the power’s already going to his head,” Arthur groaned, eliciting more laughter. 

When it died down, Gwen said, “Though, in truth, Arthur, we’ve all waited a long time for this day. I know I speak for all of us when I say, we believe in the man you are. You will lead us as well as you always have, and we will always follow.” 

Arthur looked down at the table, his chest constricting, but not in fear or anguish. It was gratitude. He wouldn’t have made it this far if not for each of the people before him, and the man next to him. 

“All of us, sire,” Leon agreed. “Until our dying day.” 

“Yeah, and who knows? Maybe after that,” Gwaine said.

Leon lifted his glass up high. He shouted, “Long live the king!” 

The rest of the knights took up the call, and it spread throughout the rest of the hall until all other noise ceased. It filled up the room and echoed through Arthur’s chest. He looked at Gwen, who was softly smiling at him with gentle pride as she said the words. His eyes moved to Gaius, who raised his chin with dignity as he said it. He found his committee members in the crowd, each of them holding up their glasses in a toast and nodding at him when they caught his eye. 

And then he looked at Merlin, and found he couldn’t look away.

“Long live the king,” Merlin joined in, his voice hardly above a whisper, but with a twinkle in his eyes so intense that Arthur knew the years would never cause it to fade, but to supernova instead.

 

///

 

Two days later, a small group consisting of Arthur and Merlin, the Druid chiefs and their advisors, and the committee members collected in Guildhall to see the knights off before their quests. Cars waited outside, ready to take them to the docks or up north as they began their journeys. Elyan and Percival would begin together, headed west, while Lancelot went east. 

Gwen had decided to leave for Exeter that day as well, her residence already prepared for her, filled of her own staff, and awaiting her arrival. Arthur felt a pang in his chest at seeing her in her travel clothes, even though Exeter was less than a day’s drive away. She would easily return to the city whenever she pleased, and whenever she was needed; but any distance from her whatsoever would take some getting used to.

He expected she felt that tenfold for Lancelot, but they would be reunited again, Arthur was certain. He had already spoken to Gwen about travelling to new lands herself, to be his emissary to neighbouring counties. Those voyages would take her to husband, too, for visits until he was back home for good. 

Arthur extended his arm to each of his departing men in turn, grasping them at the wrists like brothers, and wishing them safe travels. The members of the committee gave their thanks, Gaius gave them words of encouragement, the Druids cast protection spells over them, Gwen kissed them each on the cheek, and Gwaine and Wallace embraced their fellow knights. Merlin was last, shaking their hands much like Arthur had, and appearing as if he didn’t want to let go, didn’t wish to say goodbye to his friends ever again.

Arthur knew that, one day, he wouldn’t have to. One day, there would be no more goodbyes.

After all, that’s what fairytales are, in the end: happily ever after for all. No hard feelings. No clauses or conditions. No cliffhangers. No ifs, ands, or buts. And, while Arthur hated to give into the will of those ridiculous legends by calling himself a fairytale, he had to admit it felt like and ending, all goals having been achieved, all stories in closure. Happily ever after. It even wrapped up with a wedding. 

But it didn’t end there, not really. There were still things to do, and many years ahead of them. He knew that as he watched his men leave the hall. Each of them had a light pack of their possessions, their portion of the Cup, and magic from Morgana’s bomb. Merlin had found a way to repurpose the energy she’d collected from the Neo-Druids. Instead of destroying, it would create. It would focus the power of the Old Religion, and wherever the magic went, the earth would heal. Soon, as the knights travelled to the far parts of the earth and back, things would return to how they were before the War. There would be green again.

More quests. More adventures. More stories. But none of them Arthur’s.

He was content in his happy ending. 

After they saw everyone off, Arthur and Merlin returned home. The committee needed time to prepare their lobbies and campaigns for their provinces under the nearly formed government, and Gwaine, with the help of Wallace, started work picking their officers. Arthur would meet with all of them separately in the late afternoon and evening. It would be tiring work, so he was looking forward to spending the day resting.

From then on, relaxation would be hard to come by.

“So, you majesty, what’s your first official order of business as king?” Merlin asked almost as soon as they got in the door. “Travel around the country to meet your humble subjects? Kiss babies on the head? Make promises you can’t possibly keep?”

Arthur rolled his eyes and shrugged off his jacket. Perhaps the day wouldn’t be as relaxing as he’d hoped. He was bristling with anticipation. His skin hummed with worry and hatred for standing still when there was so much work to be done.

Rebuilding the United Kingdom was going to be a long and laborious task. New laws would have to be put in place, social amenities would have to be re-established and funded, new infrastructure would have to be built, people would need jobs and food and medicine . . . The list went on. Then, of course, there would be sneaky politics and resistance from those who would inevitably opposed him. He’d probably have to kiss a lot of babies, actually. 

But it would get done somehow, he tried to tell himself, so long as he had the loyalty of his counsellors and his men. So long as he had Merlin at his side. He’d do his best to keep all his promises. He’d see the long and laborious work through.

He’d be a good and fair king for all this time around.

“I was thinking more like a cup of tea,” he told Merlin.

Merlin’s face lit up. Arthur traced the curves of the grin with his eyes. It was the same smile that belonged to that bumbling servant who couldn’t draw a decent bath or refill a wine goblet without spilling it. The same smile that belonged to the deity that commanded dragons, created hurricanes with the wave of his hand, and did it all only for Arthur. 

He didn’t care what version of Merlin he’d have to face the day with, so long as it was Merlin. Arthur would take every piece of him: the secrets and wisdom, the strength and weakness, the hopes and fears, the clumsy limbs and steadfast hands, the anger and the kindness. So many contradictions inhabited the same skin, and Arthur wanted nothing less. 

He loved Merlin. Every piece of him.

“Mmm, sounds good to me. But it’s midday. Kitchen staff is on their break.” 

“You leave the worrying to me. Go upstairs and get comfortable,” Arthur said, knowing how much Merlin hated being in his fitted court attire—though, Arthur had to admit, it was much more shapely and was a pleasure, if not a distraction, to look at. “I’ll make the tea.”

Merlin groaned in facetious disgust. “Great!” he complained dramatically, but he spun around and started up the stairs. His voice carried after him long after he’d disappeared. “Let’s hope you’re halfway better at being king than you are at making a cuppa or else we’re all doomed!”

Because Merlin wasn’t looking, Arthur allowed his shoulders to rumble with a silent laugh. He could yell some insult up the stairs at Merlin, but it probably wouldn’t be worth it. 

Instead, he went to the kitchen and took two teacups from the cupboard. He placed them on the counter and reached for the electric kettle. Once the water was done boiling, he sloshed it into the cups much too quickly. The scalding water jumped up onto his hand. He hissed out a curse, pulling his hand away on reflex, accidentally swiping one of the cups off the counter in the process with the kettle’s cord.

Instinctively, he gasped and shot out his hand as though he could catch the cup before it cracked on the floor. He wouldn’t have been able to reach it in time, but it was suddenly as though time was not a factor.

Gravity had apparently decided it was done for the day. The teacup never reached the floor. It hung suspended in midair. Its liquid contents appeared as though they had meant to splash out, but were frozen mid-motion. 

Arthur froze, too. He gaped at the cup, and for some reason kept his palm hovering over it. He forgot how to move, how to breathe. The air was trapped inside his lungs.

He looked up at the doorway, expecting to find Merlin there. That was the only explanation. But Merlin was not there. Arthur knew he wouldn’t be before he’d checked. 

The thrumming beneath Arthur’s skin no longer felt like worry.

He looked at the cup with wide eyes, panic rising in him. The need for oxygen overwhelmed him, and the autonomic job of breathing unconsciously kick started again.

Air forced its way into him. 

His irises faded back to blue.

The teacup shattered on the tiles.

* * *

**The End.**

"Never underestimate the power of love. I've seen it change many things."  
\- Season 2, episode 13

* * *

 

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everybody!
> 
> We made it to the end! We did it!
> 
> Big thank you to [mushroomtale](http://mushroomtale-fanart.tumblr.com/), who still to this day has completely knocked me back on my heels with her beautiful art for this. Lyns, you have more talent than I deserve, but thank you for using your powers for the Merlin fandom. Still can’t believe you offered to do this.
> 
> And thank you to [Kit](http://ofkingsandlionhearts.tumblr.com/), my dear friend and cheerleader, for being there every step of the way. And for the conversation that lead to the idea for this fic, which was to supposed to be—what?—like, five chapters total when it was first conceived? Good times.
> 
> And a giant thank you to everyone who read this! Whether you’ve been reading since the beginning, or you waited patiently for all three books to be posted before reading, or if you discovered this somewhere down the line! Thank you for the words of encouragement, the reviews, and the likes and reblogs on tumblr. This fandom is so amazing. This show ended years ago, and yet, here we still are! Still creating and supporting each other and keeping the story going. It really doesn’t get much better than that. You’re the kindest, most genuine group of people I could ever ask for, and I’m so happy to be in this fandom.
> 
> Now, I’ve been writing this fic for a long time. Like, four or five years. (Who can even remember anymore.) So much in my life has changed from when I first started it to now, and I’m like—holy shit, who even am I when I’m not writing this fic?! (Maybe I should go outside now. See the sunlight. Say hello to my family. The possibilities….) It kicked my ass, and I’m glad to be done with it, but I’ll miss it, too. It helped me make sense of a bunch of things about the show and characters, and gave me a little bit of closure that I think the show didn’t necessarily give us. I hope it did the same for you. Even if this isn’t how you headcanon what happens next, I hope you still had fun! And I hope you liked my ending. (Even though, it didn’t really end. It’ll never end. It never should end. It’s King Arthur. He’ll always be around for as long as stories are told.)
> 
> What I’m trying to say is, this fic special to me, and I hope you feel the same way. It’s a lot more than just a fic to me at this point. And I’m lucky I had the amount of time I did with it, when it was just mine. But now it belongs to you, so please take care of it. Interpret it how you want, love these characters for how you see them. My only hope is that, one day when you think about the show or watch an old episode years from now, you think about this story in passing and say, “hey, remember that one fic? What was that thing called?”
> 
> Yours,  
> Mallory
> 
> Ps. Maybe one day I’ll post the long and various soundtracks for each individual book, but for now please enjoy this selection for the trilogy as a whole:
> 
> We Sink – Of Monsters and Men  
> Ain’t No Grave – Johnny Cash  
> Vagabond – The Horse Thieves  
> Backyard – Of Monsters and Men  
> Glory Days – Roo Panes  
> Mr. Brightside – The Killers  
> Organs – Of Monsters and Men  
> Kronos - Keaton Henson  
> Howl – Florence and the Machine  
> East – Sleeping at Last  
> Into the Ocean – Blue October  
> The Finish Line – Snow Patrol  
> We’re Still Here – Sleeping at Last  
> You’ve Haunted Me All My Life – Death Cab for Cutie  
> Emperor’s New Clothes – Panic! at the Disco  
> Castle – Halsey  
> Eyes on Fire – Blue Foundation  
> Seven Devils – Florence and the Machine  
> Roll the Bones – Shakey Graves  
> Years of War – Porter Robinson  
> King and Lionheart – Of Monsters and Men
> 
> And come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://dochollidayed.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> If you enjoyed this work, please consider supporting me on [Buy Me a Coffee](https://www.buymeacoffee.com/emmbrancs). Thanks so much for reading!


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